There was another pause.
“Ah, well,” sighed the girl, “we shall have a nice long rest when we stop for tea at—at—what is the name of the place?”
“Symon’s Yat.”
Medenham’s voice was husky. Truth to tell, he was rather beside himself. He had played for a high stake and had nearly won. Even now the issue hung on a word, a mere whiff of volition: and if he knew exactly how much depended on that swing of the balance he might have been startled into a more earnest plea, and spoiled everything.
“But that will throw us late in arriving at Hereford,” said Mrs. Devar.
“Does it really matter? We shall be there all day to-morrow.”
“No, it is of no consequence, though Count Edouard said he would meet us there.”
“And I refused to pledge myself to any arrangement. In fact, I would much prefer that his Countship should scorch on to Liverpool or Manchester, or wherever he happens to be going.”
“Oh, Cynthia! And he going out of his way to be so friendly and agreeable!”