“Miss Doris,” said he, looking up from the toes of his boots which he had been contemplating and still grinning, not from merriment, but as if the grin had stuck to his face and would not come off, “couldn’t you tell the ould lady to keep away, for it’s afear’d I am that the dhrame will come true.”
“I wish I could,” said Doris whole-heartedly; then, remembering to whom she was speaking: “Don’t talk nonsense. It’s very wicked to be superstitious and believe in dreams—besides, dreams always come contrary; if you dream of a wedding some one is sure to die, and if you dream a person is dead, it’s a sign they are going to be married——”
“I say,” said Lord Gawdor, who had climbed on to the window-seat, “come here.”
Doris came to the window. An outside car piled with luggage was coming across the park along the drive. On one side of the car sat the driver, on the other a young gentleman in a Norfolk jacket and a shooting cap; he had a pipe in his mouth.
It was the first of the expected guests.
“It’s Mr Fanshawe,” said Doris. “Isn’t he nice-looking!”
“Look, there’s two gun-cases,” said Lord Gawdor. “My eye! wonder where his horses are?”
“He couldn’t bring his horses on the car with him,” said Doris.
“Who said he could, stupid?” replied his lordship, pushing the window up.