“Why should I? What is it?”
“Only whether—whether she—Miss Gwen, I mean—said anything about riding to-day?”
“Not a word—at least not to me.”
“How long since they went off—may I know, Miss Linton?”
“Oh, hours ago! Very early, indeed—just after taking breakfast. I wasn’t down myself—as I’ve told you, not feeling very well this morning. But Gwen’s maid informs me they left the house then, and I presume they went direct to the river.”
“Do you think they’ll be out long?” earnestly interrogates Shenstone.
“I should hope not,” returns the ancient toast of Cheltenham, with aggravating indifference, for Lutestring is not quite out of her thoughts. “There’s no knowing, however. Miss Wynn is accustomed to come and go, without much consulting me.”
This with some acerbity—possibly from the thought that the days of her legal guardianship are drawing to a close, which will make her a less important personage at Llangorren.
“Surely, they won’t be out all day,” timidly suggests the curate; to which she makes no rejoinder, till Mr Shenstone puts it in the shape of an inquiry.
“Is it likely they will, Miss Linton?”