“No; I––I––I will have a letter to go,” and she turned toward the desk. “How soon will you start?”
“Hour from now,” said Pluto, “that will catch mail all right;” and with that she must be content. At any other time she would have sent him at once without the excuse of a letter to be mailed. Those easy-going folk who handled the mail might easily have overlooked some message––a delay of twenty-four hours would mean nothing in their sleepy lives. But today she was unmistakably nervous––all the more reason for exceeding care.
She had begun the letter when Colonel McVeigh came for her to go to lunch; she endeavored to make an excuse––she was not at all hungry, really, it appeared but an hour since the breakfast; but perceiving that if she remained he would remain also, she arose, saying she would join their little festival on the lawn long enough for a cup of tea, she had a letter to get ready for the mail within an hour.
She managed to seat herself where she could view the road to the south, but not a horseman or footman turned in at the Terrace gate. She felt the eyes of Monroe on her; also the eyes of Gertrude Loring. How much did they know or suspect? She was feverishly gay, though penetrated by the feeling that the suspended sword hung above her. Pierson’s non-appearance might mean many things appalling––and Louise!
All these chaotic thoughts surging through her, and ever 287 beside her the voice of Kenneth McVeigh, not the voice alone, but the eyes, at times appealing, at times dominant, as he met her gaze, and forbade that she be indifferent.
“Why should you starve yourself as well as me?” he asked, softly, when she declined the dishes brought to her, and made pretense of drinking the cup of tea he offered.
“You––starving?” and the slight arching of the dark brows added to the note of question.
“Yes, for a word of hope.”
“Really? and what word do you covet?”
“The one telling me if the Countess Biron’s gossip was the only reason you sent me away.”