“I imagine not.”
She stood up.
“I might have known there was no use in asking you. Take care, Mr Wareham. Anne is inscrutable.” This was a parting shot as she whisked out of the room.
Whether inscrutable or not, he cared not a rap, for the caution set his blood tingling until he forced himself to turn aside from weighing it. Up-stairs he was not wanted; he sat in solitude for some time, and the young Norwegian doctor was his first visitor. He brought information of a consultation later in the day, said he thought Hugh was holding his own, and spoke hopefully; there was a telegram to be sent, a letter to be written, then a visit to the sick-room, where Hugh knew him, and smiled satisfaction.
That day and the next passed without his having a word with Anne. Once or twice he fell in with Colonel Martyn, who gained in his regard, and whatever his feelings might have been as to the waiting moor, kept them heroically out of sight. Wareham perceived that it would have gone against his instincts to have left Bergen, while poor Hugh’s fate was in the balance; further than this, that he took pains to find advantages in Norway, where before he had only grumbled. Of Lord Milborough he spoke with respect, as the owner of first-rate shootings and one of the best yachts afloat. And more he did not touch upon.
Chapter Twenty.
Not for Two Months.
Beyond the hotel the street is intersected by a wide space, at once a convenience and a provision against the fiery power which threatens Norse towns. The houses are irregular, an atmosphere of shipping hangs about, vessels are moored alongside the pier, seafaring men stroll. When Wareham wanted a breath of fresh air, he went there.