“I don’t think I shall,” he returned, smiling, “if it reduces you to such a wan-looking little person. You’re quite pale, Ann mine.”
At parting, she clung to him as though she could never let him go.
“Why, what’s this, child?” he asked, genuinely perturbed. “Are you really nervous at being left in the Cottage alone—even with the doughty Maria for company? If you are, I’ll ride over to White Windows and ask Lady Susan to put you up there until Robin comes back.”
“Oh, no, no!” she exclaimed hastily. “I’m perfectly all right. I am, really, Eliot. I didn’t sleep very well last night, that’s all.”
“Well, then, take a rest after lunch. I shan’t be able to come over this afternoon—I have to go to Ferribridge. So”—pinching her cheek—“your slumbers will be undisturbed. And go to bed early to-night,” he added authoritatively.
He went away, and later Ann made a pretence at eating lunch. The idea of “taking a rest” almost brought a smile to her pale lips. There was nothing further from her than sleep. Her brain felt on fire, and the time seemed to race along, each minute bringing nearer the dreaded ordeal of the evening.
At seven Maria brought in dinner, and once again Ann had to make a pretence at eating. Every mouthful felt as though it would choke her. Then, just as she was wondering how on earth she was to dispose of what still remained on her plate without incurring Maria’s displeasure, there came a ring at the bell, and a minute later Maria herself reappeared, carrying a telegram on a salver.
“From Master Robin, maybe, sayin’ when he’ll be home again,” she suggested conversationally, while Ann tore open the envelope and withdrew the flimsy sheet.
“Don’t come to-night,—FORRESTER.”
Ann looked up from the single line of writing and spoke mechanically.