“You would have been terribly in the way,” he was told. “Only two should drive together. Besides, we amused ourselves by discussing some of you.”
This piqued him into curiosity, as she expected. Wareham sat indifferent, caring nothing whether he were discussed or no, but conscious of imprisoned words beating wildly at the bars behind which he had set them. He knew now that he had been mad to come.
Ordinarily Anne and her step-mother exchanged as few words as possible; this night, as the party separated, Lady Dalrymple announced that she had something to say, and was bidden to Anne’s room at a later period. When she swept in, attired in a flame-coloured wrapper of softest silk, Anne flung her a glance of reluctant admiration. She was under thirty-five, tall, and sufficiently dark to annoy Anne, who hated to hear of likeness; a too important nose stood in the way of claims to beauty, but perhaps gave weight to the verdict of handsome. A high voice had rasping tones in it, and the line of her eyebrows was so unpleasantly even as to suggest pencilling.
She sank into the chair which was pushed forward for her, and put her question.
“May I ask whether anything is decided?” Anne’s eyes darkened, but she answered briefly—
“Nothing.”
“And we leave on Thursday. I go to the Sinclairs’ as settled, after that my plans are changed.”
Anne did not turn her head.
“You mean to marry?”
“Lord Arthur Crosse.”