“I had: a large, populous, and happy parish. It is my one dream to sit once more on its council and direct my curate.”
“Of course that makes a difference. Mr Candles didn’t know all this.”
They had come by this time to the corner of a little island that lay not far from the shore; in the channel ahead a board labelled “Danger” marked a hidden spring; behind them the shining ice was almost bare of skaters, for all but Dr Escott seemed to be leaving; on the bank they could see Moggridge prowling about in the gathering dusk, a vigilant reminder of captivity. Mr Beveridge took the whole scene in with, it is to be feared, a militant rather than an episcopal eye. Then he suddenly asked, “Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“You drive back?”
“Ye[—]es.”
He took out his watch and made a brief calculation.
“Go now, call at Clankwood or do anything else you like, and pass down the drive again at a quarter to five.”
This sudden pinning of her irresolution almost took Lady Alicia’s breath away.
“But I never said——” she began.