“The rain has grown harmless. You are not sorry I enticed you out, Mary?”
“Sorry! I think it delightful.”
It appeared that she was almost as rapturous as Wareham. Anne told him of her step-mother’s engagement, and found that he had guessed something. He asked whether it affected her unpleasantly.
“Oh no, I am glad. We have never pulled together.” She stopped abruptly. “Pray where are we going?”
“Yesterday morning I came this way, and seeing a delightful path through a wood,” said Wareham eagerly, “I set my heart upon showing it to you.”
“Well—” She walked on, holding her umbrella lightly poised, really wondering whether Mary Tempest could be trusted to carry out her directions naturally. “We escaped from Mrs Martyn when we came out,” she said, laughingly. “I suspect they are all finding it rather dull, shut up in the house. What is your mother doing, Mary?”
“She was writing to father.” The girl came to a sudden stop. “Oh!”
“What is the matter?”
“Horace! Horace must be written to, and I have not done it!”
“The post goes out so early here, still—surely you will have time for a not very long letter?”