“I am sorry to say,” were her first words, “that Miss Barfoot will not be here in time for dinner. She went to Faversham this morning, and ought to have been back about half-past seven. But a telegram came some time ago. A thick fog caused her to miss the train, and the next doesn’t reach Victoria till ten minutes past ten.”
It was now half-past eight; dinner had been appointed for the hour. Barfoot explained his lateness in arriving.
“Is it so bad as that? I didn’t know.”
The situation embarrassed both of them. Barfoot suspected a hope on Miss Nunn’s part that he would relieve her of his company, but, even had there been no external hindrance, he could not have relinquished the happy occasion. To use frankness was best.
“Out of the question for me to leave the house,” he said, meeting her eyes and smiling. “You won’t be hard upon a starving man?”
At once Rhoda made a pretence of having felt no hesitation.
“Oh, of course we will dine immediately.” She rang the bell. “Miss Barfoot took it for granted that I would represent her. Look, the fog is penetrating even to our fireside.”
“Cheerful, very. What is Mary doing at Faversham?”
“Some one she has been corresponding with for some time begged her to go down and give an address to a number of ladies on—a certain subject.”
“Ah! Mary is on the way to become a celebrity.”