Cynthia breathed deeply. She was profoundly conscious of an escape wholly due to his forbearance, but she was terrified at finding that her thankfulness was of a very doubtful quality. She knew now that this man loved her, and the knowledge was at once an ecstasy and a torture. And how wise he was, how considerate, how worthy of the treasure that her overflowing heart would heap on him! But it could not be. She dared not face her father, her relatives, her host of friends, and confess with proud humility that she had found her mate in some unknown Englishman, the hired driver of a motor-car. At any rate, in that moment of exquisite agony, Cynthia did not know what she might dare when put to the test. Her lips parted, her eyes glistened, and she turned aside to gaze blindly at the distant Welsh hills.
“If we don’t hurry,” she said with the slowness of desperation, “we shall never complete our programme by nightfall.... And we must not forget that Mrs. Leland awaits us at Chester.”
“To-night I shall realize the feelings of Charles the First when he witnessed the defeat of his troops at the battle of Rowton Moor,” was Medenham’s savage growl.
Hardly aware of her own words, Cynthia murmured:
“Though defeated, the poor king did not lose hope.”
“No: the Stuarts’ only virtue was their stubbornness. By the way, I am a Stuart.”
“Evidently that is why you are flying from Chester,” she contrived to say with a little laugh.
“I pin my faith in the Restoration,” he retorted. “It is a fair parallel. It took Charles twenty years to reach Rowton Moor, but the modern clock moves quicker, for I am there in five days.”
“I am no good at dates——” she began, but Mrs. Devar discovered them from afar, and fluttered a telegram. They hastened to her—Cynthia flushed at the thought that she might be recalled to London—which she would not regret, since a visit to the dentist to-day is better than the toothache all next week—and Medenham steeled himself against imminent unmasking.