She was under no delusions respecting her nephew, as she had once admitted to Ann. But she was indulgently attached to him, and so genuinely devoted to Ann herself that she would have welcomed a match between the two. During the time they had lived together she had grown to love Ann almost as a daughter, and she felt that if she became her niece by marriage the girl would really “belong” to her, in a way. She had even come to a mental decision that if such a desirable consummation were ever reached she would settle a fairly large sum of money upon Ann on her wedding day. “For,” as she shrewdly argued to herself, “Brett’s already got more than is good for him, and every woman’s better off for being independent of her husband for the price of hairpins.”
She had seen comparatively little of Coventry and Ann together. Moreover, although she guessed that the former might be attracted to a limited extent, she did not regard him as a marrying man, nor had she the remotest notion of for how much he counted in Ann’s life. Had she suspected this, she would most certainly have let things take their course, and the little warning hint which she had half banteringly dropped at breakfast, and which was destined to bear such bitter fruit, would never have been uttered.
Forrester covered the few miles that separated White Windows from Heronsmere at the same reckless pace at which he had started. He seemed oblivious of the animal between the shafts of the high dog-cart, directing it with the instinctive skill of a man to whom good horsemanship is second nature. His thoughts were turned inward. His eyes, curiously concentrated in expression, gleamed with that peculiar brilliance which was generally indicative with him of some very definite intensity of purpose. The groom who took charge of the foam-flecked horse when he reached Heronsmere glanced covertly at his arrogant face and opined to one of his fellows in the stables that “Mr. Forrester had precious little care for his horseflesh. Brought his horse here in a fair lather, he did.”
Coventry, who was attending to a mass of correspondence when Brett was shown into his study, shook hands with the superficial friendliness that not infrequently masks a secret hostility between one man and another.
“Hope I’m not disturbing you?” queried Brett lightly.
Eliot shook his head.
“I’ve no particular love for my present task,” he replied, with a gesture towards his littered desk. “I’m trying to overtake arrears of correspondence. Sit down and have a smoke.” He tendered his case as he spoke.
“Price you’ve got to pay for three weeks’ gallivanting, I suppose?” suggested Brett, helping himself to a cigarette and lighting up.
“I should hardly describe my recent absence from home as—gallivanting,” returned Eliot, with a brief flash of reminiscence in his eyes.
“No? Well, you don’t look as if it had agreed with you too well, whatever it was,” commented the other candidly. “I should say you’ve dropped about half a stone in weight since I last saw you.”