He walked, and it was a long way. It was seven o’clock when he opened the front door with his latch-key.
The family were already at dinner—all but William, who was walking up and down the hall, looking haggard. Mr. Carter came in and hung his hat upon the rack.
“Waiting for any one?” he asked his son dryly.
William raised his head.
“Yes, Fanchon. She hasn’t come in yet. I’m expecting her any moment.”
“You needn’t,” his father retorted grimly. “She’s out riding with that fellow—Caraffi’s manager.”
William said nothing, but he stopped short. Mr. Carter, after eying him for an instant, went on into the dining-room. His wife, Daniel, Emily, and Leigh were sitting around the table, eating the second course disconsolately.
“I thought you’d never come—and we were hungry,” Mrs. Carter said apologetically. “Miranda, go and get the soup for Mr. Carter. I had it kept hot,” she added, glancing anxiously toward the hall door.
They could hear William walking to and fro again. As Miranda disappeared for the soup, Mr. Carter looked up. He glanced at his wife meaningly.
“She’s out riding with that man,” he said in an undertone.