The next morning he was half ashamed of the past evenings disturbance, and would have been amazed if any one had informed him that cool reflection is sometimes as much to be watched in love as a sudden drop of temperature in a fever. Among his letters were two which he looked at without a throb, although by the post-marks he knew that they must be from Thorpe. The first he opened was a brief invitation from Lord Milborough, asking him from Monday to Thursday. As he read, Wareham framed an answer of refusal in his mind. The other was from Anne, as short, but different. She underlined a hope that he would come.
And now cool reflection stepped briskly forth. Go or not, let him choose which he deliberately preferred, only avoiding the cowardly fear that he might not be master of himself. Pledged he was, and pledged he must remain, since no thought of evasion could be honourably entertained for a moment; but he was not therefore bound to give false impressions, or to allow Anne to suppose that he by choice avoided her. His refusal would make her think so? Then let him go.
Wareham wrote and accepted. As a compromise, he left Anne’s letter unanswered.
Civility, he thought, required that he should go and ask for Lady Fanny’s thimble. He went on Sunday afternoon.
“So I was right, after all,” Mrs Ravenhill said, with a laugh. “I hope you will get good shooting.”
Millie chiefly talked to a boy about postage stamps. She and Wareham scarcely exchanged words until he rose to leave. Then he said—
“Have you any message?”
“For Fanny?” She looked surprised. “My love, please.”
“I meant for Miss Dalrymple.”
Her “Oh!” was abrupt. She added, immediately, “No, I shouldn’t venture. Miss Dalrymple has probably forgotten that we ever met.”