And yet, during dinner, his uneasiness, like a forgotten ghost, crept back to him. Henry had a headache, and had gone to bed.
“He’s not been very well lately,” said Aunt Aggie to Philip, “that evening with you upset him, I believe—over-excited him, perhaps. I’m glad you liked Manchester.” He could not deny that dinner was a little stiff. He was suddenly aware over his pudding that he was afraid of Mrs. Trenchard, and that his fear of her that had been vague and nebulous before his absence was now sharp and defined.
He looked at her, and saw that her eyes were anything but placid and contented, like the rest of her.
“More pudding, Philip?” she asked him, and his heart beat as though he had received a challenge.
Afterwards in the drawing-room he thought to himself: “ ’Tis this beastly old house. It’s so stuffy”—forgetting that two hours earlier it had seemed to welcome him home. “We’ll be all right when we get down to the country,” he thought.
Finally he said good-night to Katherine in the dark little passage. As though he were giving himself some desperate reassurance, he caught her to him and held her tightly in his arms:
“Katie—darling, have you missed me?”
“Missed you? I thought the days were never going to pass.”
“Katie, I want to be married, here, now, to-night, at once. I hate this waiting. I hate it. It’s impossible—”
Katherine laughed, looking up into his eyes.