“Catherine will be here to-day. I’ll tell her what you wish, father.”
“Ay, do. Catherine, now,” he muttered. “There would have been a girl!”
Ella vanished.
The invitation came. Wareham would have refused, but that he saw old Sir Michael had set his heart upon the matter, for Lord Ormsleigh’s shooting was the best in the county.
“I’ll go,” he said to Ella, “since your father won’t believe that I like sport better as an excuse than a pursuit.”
“Dear old dad! His imagination is not strong enough to conceive that any one can find enjoyment except in the ways he liked himself.”
She had overtaken him as he was strolling home across the park. Ella had been to the village, and had just turned in from the road, which at this point sank into a cutting, so as to be out of view of the house. They walked slowly, now and then standing still to look at an opening between the trees, revealing blue depths. For a woman, Ella was tall, and carried herself uprightly. Looking at her, you gathered an impression of force in reserve. To the outer world she was cold. Wareham knew her better, a medium intellect, but a strong true heart. He saw now that she had something to say, and waited. She said it as they stood still.
“Dick,”—she turned and faced him, breathing hard—“let me hear about Miss Dalrymple.”
“I expected you to ask.”
“And I couldn’t before. I’ve been afraid.”