“If you can keep me.”
Wareham walked back with Mrs Martyn, for the first time in his life grateful to her satisfaction with her own babble. At intervals she tried to catch him with an astute question; indifference protected him, for his heart felt like nothing so much as an empty husk, and at this moment there was nothing to show or conceal. It was all over, for Anne’s manner had conveyed to him that he would never be forgiven. In place of sweet Love he hugged Honour, a prickly substitute! Yet he breathed thankfully.
Of Lord Milborough he was not thinking, Mrs Martyn’s hints not even reaching his ears. Half-an-hour ago Anne, he believed, would have been his, could he have claimed her, and to imagine that she was already won by another, would have been to degrade womanhood. He went mechanically with his companion into the house; all the women and some of the men were in the hall, where a big fire blazed cheerfully, and tea stood on a table where Lady Fanny chatted. Mary Tempest looked wistfully at Wareham.
“Where is Anne?” murmured Lady Dalrymple languidly.
“Behind us.”
And at this moment she came in and stood a central point for the fire-light. As she drew off her gloves, her eyes, softly brilliant, wandered round the group, and passed Wareham unconcernedly; her beauty had the effect of eclipsing all the other women. Mrs Martyn touched Wareham’s arm.
“Look at Lord Milborough’s face.”
He looked, uncomprehending.
“Oh, men, men,” said Mrs Martyn impatiently. “Of course it is settled.”