“Miss Ravenhill is your friend?”
“The dearest!” Rash Fanny added quickly, “I would give a great deal to see her happy.”
“And what does that mean?” asked Anne, her lips tightening, though she smiled.
Fanny caught herself back.
“I suppose only Millie could tell us.”
“Or one other.”
No answer was given. Lady Fanny whipped up her ponies, they went flying down one hill, swung up another. A wind had risen, a grey squadron of clouds scudded overhead, out of the yellow trees came rustle and fall of leaf. By way of a safer subject, Fanny prophesied change of weather and rain.
“That will affect to-morrow’s shootings,” remarked Anne. “Poor Lord Milborough!”
“Oh, he’ll not mind. I don’t think he was keen about it to-day.”
Her companion sat reflective. She said at last—