The Second Best.
Dane awoke next morning to face a long and difficult day. Idle hours are proverbially dedicated to temptation, and despite many resolutions his thoughts drifted continually towards Cassandra, continually emphasised her nearness, and dallied with the possibility of a meeting. He swore that such a meeting should not be his own doing, but what if chance brought it about?
For some moments he permitted himself to envisage possibilities, then sternly called himself to order. Teresa in sorrow demanded an undivided loyalty; her tenderness during the past year riveted her claims. He determined to telephone to the Squire, apologise for his own inability to call at the Court, and try to arrange a meeting in town, but half an hour later as he stood on the step of the hotel, he saw the familiar dog-cart driving towards him, and heard himself hailed in loud, well-known tones.
“Halloa, Peignton! Heard you were here. Drove round to say how d’you do.” The Squire gave the reins to the groom. “I’ll come inside and have a smoke... Poor old fellow went off in a hurry, eh? S’pose you are staying over the funeral?”
“Yes. Till Friday morning. I’m glad you called. I was going to ring you up, and explain that I should have no time to pay calls...”
“No. No. Of course not. Son of the house; you’ll have the whole show on your hands. And Teresa, eh? Bit of lost time to make up, what? Thought you were never going to turn up again... You know your own business best, of course...”
“I do,” Dane said firmly, but the Squire was not sensitive to rebuffs.
“Well!”—he said slowly—“that is as it may be. All the same, if you leave things much longer, and she falls to pieces as she’s been doing lately, there’ll be no Teresa left... Bad business this money trouble! Who would have thought that solemn old buffer could have been such a giddy owl?”
Dane sat, unlighted cigarette in hand, gazing at him in dismay.
“What money trouble?”