“I didn’t know then that Woodleigh and Byestry lay so near together,” said Antony. And then he stopped. What on earth was he to say next?
The Duchessa looked at him. There was an oddness in his manner she could not understand. He seemed entirely different from the man she had known on the Fort Salisbury. Yet—well, perhaps it was only fancy.
“You know now, anyhow,” she responded gaily. “And you must come and see me.” Then her glance fell upon his clothes. Involuntarily a little puzzlement crept into her eyes, a little amazed query.
“What are you doing at Byestry?” she asked. The question had come. Antony’s hand clenched on the side of the pony-trap.
“Oh, I’m one of the under-gardeners at Chorley Old Hall,” he responded cheerfully, and as if it were the most entirely natural thing in the world, though his heart was as heavy as lead.
“What do you mean?” queried the Duchessa bewildered.
“Just that,” said Antony, still cheerfully, “under-gardener at Chorley Old Hall.”
“But why?” demanded the Duchessa, the tiniest frown between her eyebrows.
“Because it is my work,” said Antony briefly.
There was a moment’s silence.