“With the greatest pleasure in the world,” returned John. And there is no question but that his heart was in his voice.
CHAPTER XII
THE WICKEDNESS OF MOLLY BIDDULPH
You perceive, therefore, that Chance had truly played the game well. John—a radiant John—apologized within his soul for his one-time doubt of the Sprite’s arrangement of affairs. The sun immediately shone brighter, the sky was bluer, the earth an altogether fairer and lovelier place.
He made his way swiftly back to the White Cottage. There, in the parlour, he found what he sought, a pale grey envelope lying on the table. Quickly he broke the seal, perused the opening words:
“My grandmother desires me....”
John’s heart thumped madly. It was exactly as he had hoped,—her handwriting, her signature! The faintest scent of lavender was wafted to him from the paper.
“We shall be lunching at Delancey Castle tomorrow,” said John, with a fine air of casualness, to Mrs. Trimwell, who was setting out the tea-things. Inwardly he was aware that an almost idiotic smile of pleasure was wreathing itself about his lips.
Mrs. Trimwell beamed. You might have fancied, seeing her, that the invitation had been extended to herself.
“I’m glad,” said she, heartily and concisely. “You need cheering up a bit.”
“I do?” John was surprised.