"Oh! all she said was very indirect—but as though he had not played quite fair with her on some occasion. And—it's odious to repeat!—as if that was his habit with women, and with unmarried girls as well—as if he was liable to behave in a way which placed them in a rather invidious position while he just shuffled out of all responsibility himself. She hinted his staying on with us here was a case in point—that it might give people a wrong idea altogether. That, in short—at least thinking it over I feel sure this is the impression she meant to convey to me—that he is indulging his chronic love of philandering at your expense."
"And thereby standing in the light of serious lovers such as
Marshall Wace?"
After a moment Damaris added:
"Is that your idea of Colonel Carteret, Aunt Felicia?"
"Ah! No, indeed no," the poor lady cried, with rather anguished sincerity. Then making a fine effort over herself:
"Least of all where you are concerned, my darling."
And she drifted hastily on to her feet. The curtains were still undrawn; and, through the window opposite, she caught sight of a tall figure coming up across the lawn in the frosty twilight.
"Pardon me if I run away. I've forgotten a note I meant to send to poor little Theresa Bilson.—I must let Laura have it at once, or she mayn't catch the postman," she said with equal rapidity and apparent inconsequence.
As Felicia Verity passed out into the hall, at one end of the avenue of stumpy pillars, Carteret came in at the other end through the garden door. He halted a moment, dazzled by the warmth and light within after the clair-obscure of the frosty dusk without, and looked round the room before recognizing the identity of its remaining occupant. Then:
"Ah! you—dear witch," he said. "So you're home. And what of your drive?"