Mr. Camwell was in the ante-room as Chloe passed out behind the two incensed supporters of Duchess Susan.
‘I shall be by the fir-trees on the Mount at eight this evening,’ she said.
‘I will be there,’ he replied.
‘Drive Mr. Beamish into the country, that these gentlemen may have time to cool.’
He promised her it should be done.
Close on the hour of her appointment, he stood under the fir-trees, admiring the sunset along the western line of hills, and when Chloe joined him he spoke of the beauty of the scene.
‘Though nothing seems more eloquently to say farewell,’ he added, with a sinking voice.
‘We could say it now, and be friends,’ she answered.
‘Later than now, you think it unlikely that you could forgive me, Chloe.’
‘In truth, sir, you are making it hard for me.’