“I told you I was going to England,” she said. “I wonder whether you would be surprised to hear that I spent a month or two at Scarthwaite Hall?”
Weston did not seem exactly astonished, but he was clearly disconcerted and off his guard.
“I heard that you did,” he said.
“Then you know that I met your father and sister and didn’t keep my promise, or, at least, that I didn’t do what you wanted me to?”
“Yes,” said Weston simply.
His quietness was too obvious, and she felt that it covered a good deal.
“One of them wrote you?” she asked.
“Yes,” admitted Weston, “my father indulged in a few reproaches. He didn’t seem to like the notion of my having served as your camp-packer. After that, you were in London?”
He was at fault on two points, for, though compelled to answer her, he should not have volunteered any information as to what was in the letter, nor should he have attempted to change the subject, for this made it clear to Ida that things had been said which he did not wish her to suspect. There would, of course, be reproaches, but it seemed probable that there would be a word or two of half-contemptuous advice as well, and she felt reasonably sure what this would be. Weston of Scarthwaite had, no doubt, suggested that the man of whom she had spoken so favorably would be a fool if he did not marry her. A trace of color crept into her face, and, seeing that there was a certain diffidence in her companion’s manner, she felt that she hated Weston of Scarthwaite. It was, however, evident that silence would be too suggestive just then.
“I didn’t make a promise, after all,” she said. “Are you afraid that I gave your people a wrong impression about you?”