Angela felt that there was sense in what her old nurse said, though the idea was a new one to her, and it made her thoughtful.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, presently. “I wonder what Mr. Fraser would say about it.”
“Perhaps one thing, and perhaps another. He’s good and kind, but he hasn’t got much head for these sort of things, he’s always thinking of something else. Just look what a fool Squire George (may he twist and turn in his grave) made of him. You ask him, if you like; but you be guided by yourself, dearie. Your head is worth six Reverend Fraser’s when you bring it to a thing. But I must be off, and count the linen.”
That evening, after tea, Angela went down to Mr. Fraser’s. He was directing an envelope to the Lord Bishop of his diocese when she entered; but he hurriedly put it away in the blotting-paper.
“Well, Angela, did you get your letter off?”
“Yes, Mr. Fraser, it was just in time to catch the mail to-morrow. But, do you know, that is what I want to speak to you about. Pigott thinks that, under all the circumstances”—here Angela hesitated a little—“she and I had better go to Madeira and find out how things stand, and I almost think that she is right.”
“Certainly,” answered Mr. Fraser, rising and looking out of the window. “You have a great deal at stake.”
“You do not think that it would be immodest?”
“My dear Angela, when in such a case as this a woman goes to seek the man she loves, and whom she believes loves her, I do not myself see where there is room for immodesty.”
“No, nor do I, and I do love him so very dearly; he is all my life to me.”