She had come, even as he was giving up in despair. As he turned to leave, she came, and they met face to face.
The two amiable busybodies sipped their tea and watched.
“My dear, she didn’t even offer him her hand—such a cold and stately bow. They can’t be lovers, after all!”
“I don’t think I ever saw a more lovely girl!”
“But icily cold. That pink chiffon I bought at Robinson’s will make up into a charming evening dress for Irene, don’t you think?”
“I am afraid I am late,” Joan said, and her voice was clear and cold, expressionless as a voice could be.
“Surely I deserve that at least, after the unforgivable delay in answering your letter.”
“Yes,” she said, “you—you were a long time answering.” And suddenly she realised what that delay had meant.
Yesterday, if his answer had come, perhaps she would not have done as she had done. But it was done now, past recall.
“I was away. I found Hurst Dormer irksome and lonely. Lady Linden came over; she invited me to stay at Cornbridge,” he explained. “So I went, and no letters were forwarded. Yours came within a few hours of my leaving. I hope you understand that if I had had it—”