Anne’s brain was spinning questions. Here was the opening she desired. Should she accept it? Two or three hours later there would have been no hesitation, but the morning, the cold-blooded hours of the morning, when caution walks by man, repelled her. She objected that the light would be bad, besides, three or four of them had promised to go over the stables with Lord Milborough.
“That offers you no inducement?”
He owned that she was right.
“Let me hear how you have amused yourself at luncheon,” she said, as she went away.
Mary Tempest’s head was almost turned by Miss Dalrymple that day. She was invited to accompany her wherever she went, stables, conservatory, billiard-room. Lord Milborough fretted, once murmured “Cruel!” but Anne made no sign of having heard, and as the hours passed, his spirits rose. Hope had been delicately conveyed to him by the engaged couple; this day of delay was, no doubt, a whim of Anne’s; humour it, and please her. It was proof of Anne’s power that a young earl, with sixty thousand a year, was forced to contemplate the possibilities of a refusal, and dared not risk it.
At luncheon it was acknowledged that the wind had fallen, and that the rain was not so heavy. Lord Milborough proposed to drive Colonel Martyn to a neighbouring place in a dog-cart. Would any one else come?
“I don’t mind,” said Wareham.
Anne’s fingers closed on her palm.
“If you are prepared for an hours wait?”
“Oh, I’m not.” He laughed. “I avoid courting patience, the most annoying of virtues.”