“She’s your visitor, not mine. I have no scruples. Only give me the chance!”
“On your head be it!” cried Cassandra, and bending low, darted between the shrubs towards a winding path which led in the opposite direction from the house. Peignton followed with eager steps.
Chapter Eight.
The Skirts of Chance.
Now that Lent was over dinner parties came on with a rush, started, as was only discreet, with a state gathering at the Court, when the county was invited to welcome the bride. The Vicar and his wife were the sole representatives of Chumley proper, but Dane Peignton was in request, as an odd man is bound to be in the countryside.
“It will be deadly dull,” Cassandra had warned her friend, “but it has to be done. Brace up, and go through it bravely, and if you don’t like it you need never try again.”
“I won’t,” Grizel said frankly. “A duty is a duty, and has to be done whether you like it or not, but I choose my pleasures to suit myself. If I’m amused I’ll go,—if I’m not, all the saddles of mutton in the world won’t tempt me. It always amuses me to be with you, my dear, but judging from the specimens I’ve already seen, it’s a very, very heavy county. The women are heavy in the afternoon. I tremble to think of what they must be in the drawing-room after dinner. Could I do anything to jolt them up? Put on a black gown, or do a little skirt dancing, or tell stories? I could tell some awakening stories!”
But Cassandra shook her head and issued her orders.