Rhoda had been pushing Caryl’s wheeled couch about the grounds for him to admire the early spring flowers in the borders, and the daffodils among the grass on the slopes opposite to the house, and she had just taken him indoors, when the fancy seized him that he would like a bunch of daffodils to put in the big flower-vase in the old nursery which had been given up to him as a sitting-room.
Rhoda went out to get the flowers, carrying on her arm a wooden trug containing a knife to cut them with.
She had got into the winding walk that led to the grass slopes when she suddenly became aware that there was a gentleman coming towards her from the little gate that led through the plantation.
She stopped, her heart beating very fast. For it was Sir Robert Hadlow.
He stopped too, and then he came towards her.
The joy she felt on seeing that he did not mean to avoid her got into her head and rendered her so confused and excited that she was without words when he came up.
Raising his hat rather formally, as she thought, but without the cold sternness which had characterised his manner on the fatal night of Lady Sarah’s death, he said:
“How do you do, Miss Pembury. I hope my unannounced arrival has not caused you any alarm. All is well, I hope, with the ladies, and with Caryl?”
“Oh, yes, they are all quite well. And Caryl, I think, is getting a little stronger. The doctor spoke very promisingly indeed only two days ago about him.”
“That’s excellent news. And you? Have you been well? I think, Miss Pembury, you are looking thinner.”