And then passed three whole days, during which Lionel was not seen.
The evening of the fourth, between eight and nine o’clock, found Nancy at the door of the house which her thoughts had a thousand times visited. A servant, in reply to inquiry, told her that Mr Tarrant was in London; he would probably return to-morrow.
She walked idly away—and, at less than a hundred yards’ distance, met Tarrant himself. His costume showed that he had just come from the railway station. Nancy would gladly have walked straight past him, but the tone in which he addressed her was a new surprise, and she stood in helpless confusion. He had been to London—called away on sudden business.
‘I thought of writing—nay, I did write, but after all didn’t post the letter. For a very simple reason—I couldn’t remember your address.’
And he laughed so naturally, that the captive walked on by his side, unresisting. Their conversation lasted only a few minutes, then Nancy resolutely bade him good-night, no appointment made for the morrow.
A day of showers, then a day of excessive heat. They saw each other several times, but nothing of moment passed. The morning after they met before breakfast.
‘To-morrow is our last day,’ said Nancy.
‘Yes, Mrs. Morgan told me.’ Nancy herself had never spoken of departure. ‘This afternoon we’ll go up the hill again.’
‘I don’t think I shall care to walk so far. Look at the mist; it’s going to be dreadfully hot again.’
Tarrant was in a mood of careless gaiety; his companion appeared to struggle against listlessness, and her cheek had lost its wonted colour.