Quick as Marion was, this was said so quietly that she did not quite see the drift of it. She had intended staying in London to the end of the season, not because she enjoyed it, but because she was determined to face Frank’s marriage at every quarter, and have it over, once for all, so far as herself was concerned. But now, taken slightly aback, she said, almost without thinking, that she would probably go back soon—she was not quite sure; but certainly her father and mother would be glad to see Captain Vidall at any time.
Then, without any apparent relevancy, he asked her if Mrs. Frank Armour still wore her Indian costume. In any one else the question had seemed impertinent; in him it had a touch of confidence, of the privilege of close friendship. Then he said, with a meditative look and a very calm, retrospective voice, that he was once very much in love with a native girl in India, and might have become permanently devoted to her, were it not for the accident of his being ordered back to England summarily.
This was a piece of news which cut two ways. In the first place it lessened the extraordinary character of Frank’s marriage, and it roused in her an immediate curiosity—which a woman always feels in the past “affairs” of her lover, or possible lover. Vidall did not take pains to impress her with the fact that the matter occurred when he was almost a boy; and it was when her earnest inquisition had drawn from him, bit by bit, the circumstances of the case, and she had forgotten many parts of her commination service and to preserve an effective neutrality in tone, that she became aware he was speaking ancient history. Then it was too late to draw back.
They had threaded their way through the crowd into the conservatory, where they were quite alone, and there, with only a little pyramid of hydrangeas between them, which she could not help but notice chimed well with the colour of her dress, he dropped his voice a little lower, and then suddenly said, his eyes hard on her: “I want your permission to go to Greyhope.”
The tone drew her eyes hastily to his, and, seeing, she dropped them again. Vidall had a strong will, and, what is of more consequence, a peculiarly attractive voice. It had a vibration which made some of his words organ-like in sound. She felt the influence of it. She said a little faintly, her fingers toying with a hydrangea: “I am afraid I do not understand. There is no reason why you should not go to Greyhope without my permission.”
“I cannot go without it,” he persisted. “I am waiting for my commission from you.”
She dropped her hand from the flower with a little impatient motion. She was tired, her head ached, she wanted to be alone. “Why are you enigmatical?” she said. Then quickly: “I wish I knew what is in your mind. You play with words so.”
She scarcely knew what she said. A woman who loves a man very much is not quick to take in the absolute declaration of that man’s love on the instant; it is too wonderful for her. He felt his check flush with hers, he drew her look again to his. “Marion! Marion!” he said. That was all.
“Oh, hush, some one is coming!” was her quick, throbbing reply. When they parted a half-hour later, he said to her: “Will you give me my commission to go to Greyhope?”
“Oh no, I cannot,” she said very gravely; “but come to Greyhope-when I go back.”