“She does, William,” said Andrew, with a little stress on the “does.”
“Twice over me and you has made preparations to have her married, and it strikes me that the next time we have to do with any public proceedings it will be to take her to her long home.”
“They’re a-coming down, Mr Andrews,” whispered the footman as, in evening dress and cloak, Guest brought down Myra, looking very white in her mufflings, and as if she were in some dream.
Guest handed her into the carriage, and returned for Edie, who was flushed and agitated.
“You won’t think any the worse of me for this, Percy, will you?” she whispered.
His reply was a tender pressure of the little hand which rested upon his arm.
Matters having been intrusted to Guest he directed the coachman to draw up beside the old court in Counsel Lane, and upon the footman opening the door, and the ladies being handed out, he looked at them in wonder, and asked his fellow-servant what game he thought was up as the trio passed into a gloomy looking alley, at whose corner was a robe-maker’s shop with two barristers’ wigs on blocks in the window.
But Guest knew what he was about. The courts and alleys about Benchers’ Inn were principally occupied by law writers, printers, and law stationers, and deserted enough of an evening to render the passage through of a couple of ladies in evening dress a matter likely to cause little notice, especially as they might be taking a short cut to one of the theatres.
Myra had taken Guest’s arm at a whisper from her cousin, who followed close behind, and, before long, the young barrister was well aware of her agitation and weakness, for, as they reached the upper entrance to the inn, she leaned more and more heavily upon his arm, and, after a few more paces, clung to him and stopped.
“Tired?” he said gently; “we are nearly there.”