The Colonel went on, keeping a sharp look-out for Cora Dean’s pony-carriage; but it did not meet his eyes; and Richard Linnell turned into the library, meeting Lady Drelincourt, who smiled and simpered as she passed out, thrusting a book into her reticule.
Miss Clode was just disappearing into the inner room, leaving round-eyed Annie in charge; but as soon as that young lady caught sight of Linnell, she darted back to whisper loudly:
“Auntie, auntie: here’s Mr Richard Linnell.”
The latter saw no reason why little Miss Clode should flush and turn pale, and then look up at him in a wistful manner, almost with reproach in her eyes.
“Why, it’s quite a month since I’ve seen you, Mr Linnell,” she said, “and—and you look quite pale and thin.”
“Do I, Miss Clode?” he said, smiling. “Ah, well, it’s a healthy sign—of robust health, you know. I want some—”
“But you don’t look well, Mr Linnell,” she said hastily. “Annie, my dear, take this book to Mrs Barclay’s, and make haste back.”
“Yes, auntie,” said the girl, in an ill-used tone.
“And make haste,” cried Miss Clode. “Will you excuse me a minute, Mr Linnell?”
“Oh, of course,” said the young man listlessly. “Give me the case with the violin strings, and I’ll select some.”