“The master say to come to-morrow, to-morrow as usual,” he said, as he paused above her on the steps.
“It—it must be to-day,” she said doggedly, even as the chill of relief shot through her.
“To-morrow,” said the man. His eyes were kindly inquiring. “Sahib say you are to rest.” There was a pause. “To-morrow will not be too late.”
She started. Had he read the thought that was in her mind?
“Thank you, Ranjab,” she said, after a moment of indecision. “I will come to-morrow.”
Then she slunk downstairs and out of the house, convinced that she had failed Frederic in his hour of greatest need, that to-morrow would be too late.
Frederic did not come in for dinner until after his father and Yvonne had gone from the house. He did not inquire for them, but instructed Jones to say to the old gentlemen that he would be pleased to dine with them if they could allow him the time to “change.” He also told Jones to open a single bottle of champagne and to place three glasses.
“If you please, sir, Mrs Brood has given strict orders——”
“That's all right, Jones. She won't mind for to-night. We expect to drink the health of the bride, Jones.”
“Yes, sir.”