“It’s Friday,” Jethro continued thoughtfully. “Is he coming down to-morrow? You must stay a week at least.”
“I’ll stay longer—if you will have me,” she said, looking at him queerly.
“Good! I didn’t suppose he’d be able to get away from business for more than a week. All the summer I’ve been talking of running up to town, but I’ve been prevented: haying, harvest, one thing and the other. You never wrote”—his voice was gently reproachful—“but I remembered the address—Marquise Mansions.”
“You’ve been making improvements,” she said, looking round the room.
“Yes, I’ve done a few things—the things we settled to do before you went away,” he returned, in a calm voice, “I knew you’d be coming down sooner or later, and that you would be pleased. Let me ring for tea—though there will be dinner in half an hour”—he pulled out the big, ancestral watch. “I dine late now, as they do at the Warren.”
“The Warren! Oh, yes. Of course you dine late now.”
So it was Maria Furlonger of the Warren—Maria Furlonger, who made such agonized efforts to get on socially.
“I know you like late dinner. I thought it was as well to have it, so that when you and Edred came down there would be no fuss—everything ready and as usual. He used to say that early dinner gave him indigestion. Late ones make me sleepy; I’m ready for bed before nine.”
“But you haven’t done all these things; you don’t dine late—for us?”
“The place had to be done up,” he said, rather curtly, as if he thought she laid too much stress on a trivial point. “It doesn’t matter much whether you call your last meal dinner or supper.”