William Maubray was bidden to luncheon, and was sad and abstemious at that pleasant refection, and when it was over Mrs. Kincton Knox said—
“My dear Clara, it’s quite out of the question my going with you to-day, I’m suffering so—that horrid neuralgia.”
“Oh! darling! how sorry I am!” exclaimed Miss Clara, with a look of such beautiful pity and affection as must have moved William Maubray if he had the slightest liking for ministering angels. “What can I do for you? You must, you know, try something.”
“No, love, no; nature—nature and rest. I shall lie down for a little; but you must have your ride all the same to Coverdale, and I am certain Mr. Herbert will be so kind as to accompany you.”
William Maubray would have given a great deal for a solitary ramble; but of course, he was only too happy, and the happy pair scampered off on their ponies side by side, and two hours after Miss Clara walked into her mamma’s room, looking cross and tired, and sat down silently in a chair before the cheval glass.
“Well, dear?” inquired her mother inquisitively.
“Nothing, mamma. I hope your head’s better?”
“My head? Oh! yes, better, thanks. But how did you like your ride?”
“Very stupid,” answered the young lady.
“I suppose you’ve been in one of your tempers, and never spoke a word—and you know he’s so shy? Will you ever learn, Miss Kincton Knox, to command your miserable temper?” exclaimed her mother very grimly, but the young lady only flapped the folds of her skirt lazily with her whip.