Winifred might have been impetuously thrusting back something. Perhaps she was: perhaps she had a little secret, impatient longing to escape somehow, anyhow, from the associations which imprisoned her. Frank, who knew all her little story, and knew no more than she who was coming at that moment with swift steps across the dewy grass, looked at her, and felt his heart sink, though he had not lost all hope. He could wait a lifetime, he thought, and patient waiting must gain her at last. Just then the little iron gate clicked as Anthony came through: he saw them standing with clasped hands, saw Winifred look up, and turn away quickly to the house. Was his secret misgiving true?—was it too late, after all? He half stopped; but Frank had seen him, and was strolling towards him.
The two men did not meet very cordially, but they went through the usual conventionalities.
“So you’re not off?” said Anthony.
Captain Orde, whose face was white, and whose hand was not quite so steady as usual, took out his fusee-box and struck a light.
“No, I’m not off till to-morrow,” he said, lighting his cigar slowly. “Will you have a cigar? I shall make one push for it to Colchester. Do you ever come that way?”
“Not nowadays. Though I don’t know where I shall find myself next. Sometimes I think of travelling for a year or two.”
“You don’t mean just knocking about Europe?”
“No, I should go farther afield.”
Captain Orde gave him a quick, rather questioning glance, and walked on silently.
“How will that agree with your other prospects?” he said at last.