He was about nine miles away from Saltinville on the day of Mrs Pontardent’s party, and rapidly increasing the distance, when he suddenly became aware of the sound of wheels behind in the road, and looking round as he gave place to the driver, he found that Cora Dean was checking her ponies.
“Confound her! she has followed me,” he said to himself, as she drew up by his side, quite alone, for the little seat generally occupied by the boy-groom was turned over and closed.
“This is unexpected, Mr Linnell,” she said, holding out her gloved hand. “I thought you were at home.”
“I felt sure you were,” he said, smiling.
“Why?”
The question was accompanied by a half resentful, half tender look, the first intended, the latter not.
“I expected that you would be busy with hair-dressers and dressmakers, preparing for to-night’s battle.”
“To-night’s battle?”
“Yes,” he said, in a bantering, reckless way that was new to him, “the battle with the beaux whom you are going to slay.”
He felt as if he could have bitten his tongue off the next moment, as he saw the look of pain she gave him.