"Thanks, Ingelow"—Mr. Walraven turned a grateful glance upon the lounging artist—"and, meantime, gentlemen, let us adjourn to the drawing-room. Standing talking here I don't admire."
He led the way; the others followed—Sir Roger last of all, lost in a maze of bewilderment that utterly spoiled his joy at his bride's return.
"What can it mean? What can it mean?" he kept perpetually asking himself. "What is all this mystery? Surely—surely it can not be as these men say! Mollie can not have gone off of herself!"
It was rather dull the remainder of the evening. The guests took their departure early. Sir Roger lingered behind the rest, and when alone with him the master of the house summoned Lucy. That handmaiden appeared, her eyes dancing with delight in her head.
"Where is your mistress, Lucy?" Mr. Walraven asked.
"Gone to bed, sir," said Lucy, promptly.
"You brought her up supper?"
"Yes, sir."
"What did she say to you?"
"Nothing much, sir, only that she was famished, and jolted to death in that old carriage; and then she turned me out, saying she felt as though she could sleep a week."