“Would I not be permitted to kiss you as Miss Cavendish’s deputy?” he exclaimed.
“Miss Cavendish can be her own deputy,” she 252 answered.—“Moreover, it would be premature.”
The second morning after, when Elaine Cavendish’s maid brought her breakfast, Miss Carrington’s letter was on the tray among tradesmen’s circulars, invitations, and friendly correspondence.
She did not recognize the handwriting, and the postmark was unfamiliar, wherefore, coupled with the fact that it was addressed in a particularly stylish hand, she opened it first. It was very brief, very succinct, very informing, and very satisfactory.
“Ashburton,
“Hampton, Md.
“My dear Elaine:—
“Mr. Macloud tells me you are contemplating coming down to the Eastern Shore to look for a country-place. Let me advise Hampton—there are some delightful old residences in this vicinity which positively are crying for a purchaser. Geoffrey Croyden, whom you know, I believe, is resident here, and is thinking of making it his home permanently. If you can be persuaded to come, you are to stay with me—the hotels are simply impossible, and I shall be more than delighted to have you. We can talk over old times at Dobbs, and have a nice little visit together. Don’t trouble to write—just wire the time of your arrival—and come before the good weather departs. Don’t disappoint me.
“With lots of love,
“Davila Carrington.”