“You wouldn’t like to go to your uncle, would you?”
“Lord Clanfield! Not likely!”
“Well, then, who are we to go to? Who is older and cleverer than we are, I mean!”
Gerard nodded.
“You’re right, Audrey, your brains are better than mine. But I tell you, I was so knocked on the head, as it were, by what they said that—that I don’t feel as if I should ever be able to think again!”
“Poor boy, poor boy!” she said softly.
She had bravely kept back the tears, but now she had a hard struggle for it, and she dashed out of the room to fetch hat and cloak to avoid breaking down.
Two minutes later they were in a hansom, driving to Victoria Street. Audrey indeed suggested the Underground, for they had been awakened rudely of late to the fact that they were exceeding their income; but Gerard was in no mood for small economies, and indeed every minute was precious, for Mr. Candover was a man of money and of pleasure, and they would be lucky if they caught him at home.
So they drove along fast in the pleasant April evening, not noting the fresh breeze or the soft sunset light, indeed, but each holding the hand of the other furtively, tightly, with a resolute endeavour to keep down ugly doubts and anxieties, and to believe that all would come right.
This Mr. Candover, whom they were going to consult, was their most intimate friend. Meeting him about eight months before, when they were enjoying their honeymoon abroad, they had attracted the older and rather blasé man of the world by their delight in life, by their devotion to each other, by the boyish high spirits of the young husband, the surpassing beauty of the wife.