Irony is apt to follow on the heels of good advice.
“I don’t know,” said Harry slowly. “I haven’t quite told you all.”
She waited.
“This other man, who got the chance—”
“Captain Fenwick?”
“She thinks me a stay-at-home duffer, as I am; while he—he’s a clever chap, and has been about, and can talk of the things she fancies, and—well, it can’t be helped! Look here, Anne, Philippa must really speak to Smith about that hay.”
If it had been a relief to him to say so much, he was evidently indisposed to say more, and, Anne not being one to force confidences, they talked of indifferent matters, went to see the rick, strolled round the kitchen garden, ate apricots, and were turning towards the house when a maid came out, bringing a letter.
“Oddly enough, this is from Claudia,” exclaimed Anne impulsively.
The next moment, as she glanced through it, she repented having spoken.
“What’s wrong?” demanded Harry, watching her face. As she hesitated, he added quietly, “You had better tell me.”