She shivered.
Instantly he recognized the inexorable power of environment. He spoke with professional incisiveness:
“I beg your pardon for keeping you here. It is bitterly cold. We are in for a sharp frost.”
She held out her hand.
“I return to Wilverley to-morrow.” Her voice softened delightfully. “This may be—Good-bye. And if it is, good luck to you.”
“Thanks.”
With that Cicely sped homeward, a very unhappy maid, leaving an equally unhappy man to his thoughts. Neither had understood the other; each had trodden the well-worn path of convention and good-breeding, no longer that gentle, pleasant exercise so commended and approved by the past generation. Cicely told herself that he didn’t care; he was more doctor than man. At the very last he had envisaged her as a possible patient laid low by influenza. . . . Perhaps—her cheeks glowed at the thought—he had guessed something. Deliberately he might be setting the seas between them! Otherwise, surely he would have hinted at a return to Upworthy. . . .
Grimshaw went back to his sitting-room and piled logs upon a dull smouldering heap of cinders. Borrowing Mrs. Rockram’s bellows, he blew these into a roaring fire, sat down, lit his pipe, and glared at the leaping flames. He was sensible of failure to his marrow. He accused himself of cowardice. He cross-questioned himself inexorably. Pride had governed him; he had kow-towed to the code imposed by the lady of the manor; he had missed his chance. Lord Wilverley would not miss his chance.
VIII
Alone with her mother, at tea-time, Cicely mentioned casually her visit to Mrs. Rockram and her meeting with Grimshaw upon the village green. Lady Selina nodded with Olympian majesty when she heard of the Babbington-Raikes letter, saying blandly: