CHAPTER XXXIX
THE COUNSELLOR
As she emerged into the avenue Ursula noticed a figure in front of her which she immediately recognized. It was walking at a deliberate pace, a valise and an overcoat thrown over one arm. The dog gave the alarm, and the figure looked round.
“Why did you not telegraph for the carriage?” thought Ursula.
The young man waited; his fresh-colored face shone out in the all-pervading gloom.
Ursula wondered, as she drew nearer, what deliverance she expected from this pink-eyed little innocent. He looked like a solemn peach. How could she broach her unusual subject? Visible shyness was not one of her qualities; but she smiled rather foolishly as she walked, thought Theodore Helmont, and, for so recent a widow, improperly.
“You have come up on foot from the station?” she cried. “I wish we had known. Why didn’t you telegraph?”
“Telegrams are expensive,” replied the young man.
This sounded promising.
“I only got my leave this morning,” he continued. “I couldn’t let you know, so I simply came.”