“Yes, I know,” Isabel answered mechanically.
When the rector went, she sat till dinnertime thinking. Whatever her thoughts were, they only ended in a sigh.
More visitors, then the season once more at hand. At hand, too, the month of June—but of that she had resolved not to think. Not till the very day came would she turn a thought to the future.
Kingcote was not in London. She was glad of that; otherwise she would have gone up with a troublesome nervousness.
CHAPTER XV.
Vincent Lacour—now Sir Vincent—had a letter to answer. It was the end of May, and his time was much taken up. A young and handsome baronet, of manner which many people held fascinating, of curious originality in drawing-room conversation, possessed of a considerable fortune, and without encumbrances—it was natural that he should be in request when mornings were too short for the round of seasonable pleasures, and nights were melodious with the strains of Strauss and Waldteufel. For full four days he had postponed the answering of this particular letter, and mentally he characterised the neglect as disgraceful. However, a certain event had just come to pass, which made discharge of the duty imperative. He dined at his club, and there penned his reply. Afterwards he had a ball to go to.
It concerns us to know what he wrote:
“My dear Miss Warren,