“What, little one!” he said gaily, “in trouble? What is it? You don’t think I’ve jilted you, do you?”
“Don’t talk stuff, Charley!” she said gravely. “I’m very happy; but I feel like marble—just as if there were dark veins running all through me.”
“Marble? veins?” said Charley in a puzzled tone.
“Yes; dark veins, like sorrowful thoughts; for though I’m very glad that you are going to be my own dear brother—and something like a brother too!—I can’t help feeling sorry about my poor Miss Bedford.”
Charley started from her as if he had been stung; but no one but Nelly noticed it. Five minutes after, Sir Philip and he were in the Brays’ carriage, and on their way home, for Mr Bray had insisted upon their having it in place of a cab.
There was no farther talk of going back to Blandfield Court till the Brays left town next week, and to all intents and purposes the Vinings lived in Harley-street. But Charley found time for a visit to Mr Whittrick, to see if there was any payment due.
“Happy to attend upon you, if you require my services again, Mr Vining,” he said, as he pocketed a cheque; and then he bowed his client out.
It was that same morning that, returning to lunch in Harley-street, Charley found Laura seated frowningly over a note, which she made as if to conceal upon his entrance; but directly after, as if blushing for her weakness, she stood up, holding the letter in her hand.
“Am I to be jealous?” he said laughingly, as he saluted her.
“I was afraid it might hurt your feelings, Charley,” she said, as her arms were resting on his shoulder. “Can you bear to hear its contents? It is from Max.”