“Apropos of good husbands?”
“I was not thinking of the connection, but let us hope it is apropos. Soon, I suppose? Men are generally impatient.”
“Are they?” He knit his brows, and appeared to consider the subject. “I don’t know that I am impatient. Being engaged is quite a pleasant condition. It’s an opportunity of getting thoroughly acquainted. It doesn’t seem fair on the girl to rush her into a hasty marriage. And in the meantime I have no settled home. I could leave the Moat at any time, if there were a sufficient reason, but Paley will be home in autumn. I should like to stay on until his return. It has fitted in very well for me having the run of the place while he is away, and I don’t want to make a convenience of him. He wants me to put up at the Moat over Christmas, and have some hunting, and then, if I can find it, I’d like a small agency just to add the jam to my own bread. Perhaps next spring...”
A year from now! Cassandra was conscious of mingled dismay and relief. A year more of friendship and understanding; a year more of unrest. For her own sake she could not decide whether she were glad or regretful, but she thought of Mrs Mallison and the pile of catalogues on a table when she had paid her visit of congratulation, and from her heart she was sorry for Teresa.
“I was engaged for six weeks,” she said, shrugging, and Dane opened his lips eagerly, choked back the coming words, and mumbled a conventional astonishment. She longed to know what he had been about to say!
For the next half-hour Cassandra stitched steadily at the under-robe of the pictured dame, but Peignton had not another chance of feeling the electric thrill of contact as his fingers met hers. She declared that he ruffled the surface of the silks, and insisted upon unravelling for herself.
At half-past four a manservant announced Teresa’s arrival. She had been shown into the drawing-room, and Cassandra rose to go to her, gathering her work materials together on the table. Peignton’s eyes were wistful as they followed her movements; again she had the impression that he was on the point of speaking some eager words, but again he checked himself, and was silent.
“I will bring Teresa up to you,” she said quickly. “You will enjoy a talk with her before tea.”
At five o’clock tea was carried into the Den, and the Squire and Cassandra came in to share in the meal. They found Teresa sitting close to the couch, in a somewhat aggressive attitude of possession. She had less colour than usual, and her eyes looked tired, and Peignton’s first words concerned her health.
“This girl has no business to be out,” he said kindly. “She is quite hoarse and wheezy. I tell her she is a dozen times worse than I am. I’m afraid she has taken a chill.”