Jeremy whistled meditatively.
“I’ll ask Ernest about it when he comes back on Monday.”
“If I were you I should act for myself in that matter,” she said quickly.
“No good being in a hurry; I haven’t known her a fortnight—I’ll ask Ernest.”
“Then you will regret it,” Dorothy answered, almost passionately, and rising, left the room.
“Now, what did she mean by that?” reflected her brother aloud; “she always is so deuced queer when Ernest is concerned.” But his inner consciousness returned no satisfactory answer, so with a sigh the lovelorn Jeremy took up his hat and walked.
On Sunday, that was the day following his talk with Dorothy, he saw Eva again in church, where she looked, he thought, more like an angel than ever, and was quite as inaccessible. In the churchyard he did, it is true, manage to get a word or two with her, but nothing more, for the sermon had been long, and Florence was hungry, and hurried her sister home to lunch.
And then, at last, came Monday, the long-expected day of Ernest’s arrival.
CHAPTER VII.
ERNEST IS INDISCREET
Kesterwick is a primitive place, and has no railway station nearer than Raffham, four miles off. Ernest was expected by the midday train, and Dorothy and her brother went to meet him.