“I agree!” cried Lord Milborough. “Let us each throw a stone at her.” He looked at Anne significantly. She sat smiling.
“No stones, please.”
Colonel Martyn turned a gloomy face towards them.
“Of all places for patience, commend me to Norway, where they wheel you in a perambulator by the side of a salmon river,” he said. “No newspapers, and your dinner at one o’clock off stewed whip-cord.”
His wife put in that it had made another man of him. She thought it charming, except for the people you met, shuddering at remembrance of the professor. Lord Milborough considered it a fair yachting country. Anne pronounced in favour of the inland scenery and carriole driving. “Colonel Martyn’s perambulators.”
As they left the dining-room she contrived to be near Wareham, and to say, in a low voice, “You do not drive with Lord Milborough, will you condescend to a walk in the park? In this weather we cannot go far, but Miss Tempest and I pant for fresh air, and start at three.”
The name of Miss Tempest set him at ease. He hesitated to trust himself to walk alone with her, his lips yet sealed; but with another, a third, what was there to fear? He showed his pleasure.
“Be in the conservatory at three, then,” said Anne; “we will join you there. And bring no companion, for it is insupportable to have a troop at one’s heels.” She nodded and passed on. To Mary Tempest she said, “Come to my room at three,” and sent her away radiant by adding, “There is something I want you to do for me.”
Punctual to the moment Mary appeared. Anne kissed her.
“I know I can trust you not to talk,” she said, smiling at her.