CHAPTER XXVIII—THEY WHO WAITED
LADY ANNE sat gazing absently into the heart of the fire, watching the restless leap of the flames and the little scattered handfuls of sparks, like golden star dust, tossed upward into the dark hollow of the chimney by the blazing logs. The “warm and sunny south”—at least, that part of it within a twelve-mile radius of Dartmoor—is quite capable, on occasion, of belying its guide-book designation, particularly towards the latter end of summer, and there was a raw dampness in the atmosphere this evening which made welcome company of a fire.
It seemed a little lonely without Jean’s cheery presence, and Lady Anne, conscious of a craving for human companionship, glanced impatiently at the clock. Blaise should surely have returned by now from his all-day conference with the estate agent.
She had not much longer to wait. The quick hoof-beats of a trotting horse sounded on the drive outside, and a few minutes later the door of the room was thrown open and Blaise himself strode in.
“Well, madonna?” He stooped and kissed her. “Been a lonely lady to-day without all your children?”
She smiled up at him.
“Just a little,” she acknowledged. “When I came back from those stupid committees, which are merely an occasion for half the old tabbies in the village to indulge in a squabble with the other half, I couldn’t help feeling it would have been nice to find Jean here to laugh over them with me. Jean’s sense of humour is refreshing; it never lets one down. However, I suppose she’s enjoying her beloved Moor by moonlight, so I mustn’t grumble.”
Blaise shook his head.
“Much moonlight they’ll see!” he observed. “I rode through a thick mist coming back from Hedge Barton. It’ll he a blanket fog on Dartmoor to-night.”
“Oh, poor Jean! She’ll he so disappointed.”