“My husband’s friends have too great a claim on me,” said Renée quietly, as she left her seat and moved in the direction of her own home; but she kept glancing in the direction taken by the phaeton.
It was cleverly-managed, and as if Malpas knew exactly when the carriage would next come by, timing his place so well that the sisters were close to the railings as the dashing pair scattered some of the earth over the young wife’s dress.
“Who is that with Frank Morrison, Major Malpas?” said Gertrude quickly.
“I beg your pardon?” he said.
“That fashionably-dressed lady in my brother-in-law’s phaeton. There they go.”
“Indeed!” said the Major. “I was not looking. Are you sure it was he?”
“Certain,” replied Gertrude.
“My dear Mrs Morrison, is anything the matter?” cried the Major, with a voice full of sympathy.
“No, nothing,” said the young wife, who was now deadly pale. “May I ask you—to leave us?”
“Yes,” he said earnestly; “but I shall not go. Pray take my arm. Miss Millet, your sister is ill. I fear you have been imprudent and have taxed her strength. I must see her safely home, or I could not face Morrison again.”