"No it isn't, darling, if you only had a little patience."
Clodagh made a very impatient gesture.
"You don't understand!"
"I understand one thing—that you care for Walter."
Clodagh looked up, her mutable face lit by a sudden change of expression—a sudden look of almost passionate seriousness.
"Yes, I do care for Walter," she said suddenly; "I care so much that I honestly and truly believe it would kill me if anything came between us. I have had lots of things in my life—pleasure, excitement, admiration—but I have never had happiness until now. And I won't lose it!—I can't lose it!"
The words poured forth in vehement sincerity; then, as she saw the expression on Nance's face, she gave a little laugh and put out her hand across the table.
"Dearest! I frightened you! Of course everything comes right, if one has a little patience. Let's begin breakfast properly! My head aches."
With another laugh, she pressed Nance's fingers, gathered up her scattered correspondence, and poured herself out another cup of tea.
Nance spent a long morning with her future mother-in-law, lunching with her afterwards at her hotel. Clodagh, left to herself, ordered her horse for eleven o'clock; and after two hours of recklessly swift riding in the Row, lunched alone at her club. After lunch she wrote two telegrams—one addressed to Deerehurst's London house, the other to the club he most frequented; these she handed in herself at a telegraph office, and having despatched them, drove straight home.