Their opposite neighbours rose and departed, Hugh flinging an ecstatic look at Wareham as he went. Wareham’s spirits sank to mute misery. Anne’s side allusions had been kindly, but she had not dropped one direct word for him to live upon, and fear of letting honour slip must prevent his seeking it. He writhed under the thought that she yet believed him to have summoned Hugh, and a hundred voices within him seeming to clamour for the right to put this one thing straight, he found it hard to silence them.
Breakfast over, Mrs Ravenhill and Millie vanished, giving him to understand that the sketch had to be finished.
“But I dare say we shall soon meet again,” Mrs Ravenhill said, “for here again there is not much choice of roads, and I am sitting humbly by the roadside.”
Wareham went off like a moth to get close to what hurt him.
She was not to be seen, however, nor Hugh either, so that though he was not scorched, he suffered from another kind of smart, and it did not soothe him to drop upon Mrs Martyn seated in one of the many balconies. He would have escaped, but she saw and captured him.
“I want to speak to you, Mr Wareham; pray come and sit down. We shall all be starting out in an hour’s time. Meanwhile, here we may have a few minutes’ peace.”
He could not excuse himself, and sat down reluctantly.
“I am not going to scold you about yesterday,” she said, “although I think you will allow I might.”
“You do not accuse me, I hope, of premeditation?”
She professed not to be certain, but glancing at Wareham’s face, dropped her attempt at jocularity.