“There are no towns in that part of the county, and Miss Maitland has informed me that there isn’t a hotel or boarding-house within ten miles,” replied Thorndyke, stalking angrily back into the Pullman.
The train stopped at Roseboro’ on being flagged, and Thorndyke had one of the most delicious moments of his life when he stepped into a smart trap driven by Constance herself, and left Senator Mulligan, the man of millions and of pies, stranded at the station, which consisted of the passenger shed and the station-master’s house, which had four rooms, in which the station-master with his wife and eleven children lived in much dirt and comfort.
Constance, sitting in the trap, looking remarkably handsome in her summer costume and large black hat, felt a thrill of sympathy for the unfortunate Mulligan, standing in the little shed of a station with his luggage piled around him. Not so Thorndyke, who derived acute pleasure from Mulligan’s miserable situation.
“I hope,” said Constance to the forlorn Senator, “that you will come over to see me some afternoon while you are at Roseboro’. Malvern is only six miles away.”
“Thank you,” cried Mulligan, at once rising into a mood of enthusiastic optimism, “I’ll call early and often.”
“The fellow is a good-natured ruffian, but I hope I’ll be out when he calls,” was Thorndyke’s remark to Constance as they left the sandy road of Roseboro’ station and entered the cool and shaded highway which led to Malvern.
As Constance and Thorndyke drove along the sweet-scented country lanes, crossing streams by rickety bridges and bumping up and down hills, Thorndyke felt himself near Paradise. Constance was so kind to him, so unaffectedly glad to see him. Her country life had freshened up her complexion, and she looked positively girlish, and her high spirits were infectious. She described the house-party—Mrs. Willoughby, half a dozen Virginia cousins of different ages and sexes, a French friend and her husband travelling in America, and Cathcart, the navy man—at whose name Thorndyke felt a sensible diminution of his happiness. Constance was charmed with Malvern Court, and declared it had been the happiest summer of her life—almost.
“And when I think of those weary, dreary foreign watering-places of which I grew so tired, and of those tiresome Swiss hotels, I think I am in Heaven to be once more in my own country among my own kith and kin, and hearing no language but good, honest English.”
“I intended to go to Europe this summer,” said Thorndyke, meekly. “I had planned it for two or three years.”
“Why did you not go?” asked Constance, heedlessly.