“Who fetched her—Cornet Denville?”
“Yes, my dear, her brother; and I’ve been thinking—”
“Don’t talk, Mrs Barclay,” cried Cora quickly—“don’t talk, pray, only tell me which way she went.”
“Through that door, my dear, and on to the lawn. You’ll catch ’em if you make haste. Bless us and save us, what is the matter with her? Any one would think poor Claire had run off with her young man. Dear, dear! what a blessing to be sure,” sighed Mrs Barclay complacently, as she fanned herself, “to have one’s own Jo-si-ah, and no troubles of that kind now.”
Cora was gone—out through the window and on to the grass. There were couples here and there in the dim light, but not those she wished to see, as she stood passing her large lace scarf over her head.
“What shall I do?” she moaned; and in frantic haste she ran down the first path she came to, feeling more and more sure that she was wrong; but directly after she found that this crossed a broad grass path at right angles; and as she reached it she uttered a gasp, for there was a couple coming down towards her, and she felt rather than saw that it was those she sought.
They were close upon her, coming between the bushes, and Morton was talking loudly, with the thick utterance of one nearly inebriated, while Claire was answering in a troubled way.
“Very sorry,” he said slowly, “sorry, little sis. Love you too much not to ’pologise, but—man’s position—as officer and a gentleman—”
“Yes, yes, dear, you’ve said so before.”
“And I must say you—Hallo! Who’s thish?”