Violet sighed one of those deep sighs that speak not of sorrow or lackadaisical affectation. Her eyes were sparkling.
“If I could be glad about anything so horrible,” she said, “I would be glad he spoke like that about me, for now I don’t care if I do——”
“What?”
“Run away with you.”
Mr Fanshawe again pressed her close to him. They were walking, sauntering, all this time through the wood in any direction Fate might lead them. He sighed.
“That’s the rub,” said he.
“How?”
“I will tell you. Patsy comes in here. This morning at seven, General Grampound, my revered uncle, rang his bell. Patsy answered it. Patsy was commissioned to tell a maid to tell Lady Seagrave that General Grampound requested an interview with her ‘at once’ on business of the gravest importance. Lady Seagrave replied that she would see him at eight o’clock in her boudoir.
“A few minutes after eight the boudoir bell rang, and Patsy, who scented mischief, answered it. He found the General and the lady together, but unable to communicate, as the lady in her hurry had left her ear-trumpet on her dressing-room table. Patsy was sent to fetch it.”
Mr Fanshawe paused, and, despite his dejection, chuckled.