He saw that her cheeks crimsoned as she answered his question, and he wondered whether she really had any penchant for the Major, or whether she suspected his jealous apprehensions upon that subject. She got up to go before he could question her further.
“I shall be late for luncheon,” she said, “and Lady B. hates any of us to be absent!”
“I thought there was no such thing as punctuality at Medlow.”
“Oh, we are pretty punctual at luncheon. It’s the hungry hour, and we are all ravenous. Good-bye.”
“Au revoir. You will come to-morrow, love; and come earlier, I hope.”
“Pas possible. I shall be out with the hounds.”
“Another blank day for me. But don’t disappoint me in the evening, whatever the weather may be.”
She was gone, leaving him doubtful of her fidelity, though far from suspecting the extent of her falsehood.
He endured the long, dull day as best he might, and improved his mind by skimming all the books which Lady Burdenshaw had sent him, which were really the cream of Mudie’s last supply—travels, memoirs, gossip, magazines—books chosen with a view to the masculine mind, which was supposed to be indifferent to fiction. Evening came at last. His lamp was lighted, his fire swept and garnished. The hunting party would be jogging homeward in the wintry darkness, he thought. There were three hours to wait before half-past nine, which was the earliest time at which he could expect his beloved.
It was a little after the half-hour, when his heart began to beat faster at the sound of carriage wheels. This time she was not going to disappoint him. He listened for her step upon the stair—the firm, quick tread he knew so well; but it was another step which he heard, a slower and heavier tread, with much rustling of silken draperies. It must be Lady Burdenshaw come to chaperon her.