“Oh, I am not so sure. He has fighting blood in him.”
“Is it the glow of the Berserker?” asked Millie wickedly.
Doubt had not left Wareham. It laid a hand, healthfully cold, as he had to own, upon the visions of Anne which crowded before him. It suggested a telegraphed excuse as a means of escaping the ordeal. But it found itself confronted determinedly by a strong man’s pride. Now that he had agreed to go, pride assured him that to shrink was disgraceful, and before pride, stepping robustly forward, doubt looked a poor shadowy thing. Wareham ordered it out of the way, and Monday saw him in the train which would take him to Thorpe in time for dinner. He had a drive of some miles from the station, and from the length of road which lay between the lodge and the house, perceived that the park was very large. A slight descent led to twinkling lights. Here stood the great house, planted solidly as a castle, of which, indeed, it only wanted the name.
And here was Anne.
Chapter Twenty Five.
Fire and Cold Water.
Wareham was met in the hall by Lord Milborough—thanked for coming. They went up the broad staircase together.
“The first gong has sounded, and there’s nobody in the drawing-room,” his host explained. “You’ll find friends here, I hope. Colonel and Mrs Martyn.”