Freke now meant to have his innings.
“Do you know this is Twelfth-night—the night for telling fortunes?” he said, laying down his violin.—“Come, Jacky, let me take you out of doors and show you the moon and tell yours.”
“In this snow!” screamed Mrs. Sherrard; but by that time Freke had thrown a shawl over Jacqueline’s head, and had dragged her out of the room, and the hall-door banged loudly after them.
Outside, in the cold, white moonlight and the snow, Freke pointed to the moon.
“Now make your wish,” he said; “but don’t wish for Millenbeck.”
Jacqueline’s face could turn no redder than it was, but she looked at Freke, and answered on impulse, as she always did:
“Millenbeck is finer than Barn Elms—”
“Or Wareham,” responded Freke, fixing her attention with a stare out of his bold eyes. “See here, Jacqueline, I know how it is. You think you will be able to put up with Throckmorton for the sake of Millenbeck. My dear, he is old—”
“He is only forty-four,” answered Jacqueline, defiantly.