“So you mean going, then?” Slotman asked.
“I told you I would go, and I shall. I leave to-morrow.”
“You’ll be glad to come back,” he said. He looked at her, and there was eagerness in his eyes. “Joan, don’t be a fool, stay. I could give you a good time, and—”
But she had turned her back on him.
She had written to Lady Linden thanking her for her kindly letter.
“I shall come to you on Saturday for the week-end, if I may. I find there is a train at a quarter-past three. I shall come by that to Cornbridge Station.
“Believe me,
“Yours gratefully and affectionately,
“JOAN MEREDYTH.”
There was a subdued excitement about Lady Linden during the Thursday and the Friday, and an irritating air of secretiveness.
“Foolish, foolish young people! Both so good and so worthy in their way—the girl beautiful and clever, the man as fine and honest and upright a young fellow as ever trod this earth—donkeys! Perhaps they can’t be driven—very often donkeys can’t; but they can be led!”
To Hugh Alston, at Hurst Dormer, seven miles away, Lady Linden had written.
“MY DEAR HUGH,
“I want you to come here Saturday; it is a matter of vital importance.” (She had a habit of underlining her words to give them emphasis, and she underscored “vital” three times.) “I want you to time your arrival for half-past five, a nice time for tea. Don’t be earlier, and don’t be later. And, above all, don’t fail me, or I will never forgive you.”