Mr. Chandos presided at dinner as usual, himself once more; calm, collected, courteous, and gentlemanly. The servants in waiting could never have suspected he had been making me a declaration of love, and pressing kisses on my lips not many minutes before.
"Did you get to see the letter at Warsall?" I asked, when the servants had left again, and silence was growing for me too self-conscious.
"Yes, but I don't know the handwriting. It looks like a lady's. They let me bring the note home; I'll show it you presently. Talking of that——"
"Without concluding, he rose, went to a side-table, and brought me a box, done up in paper.
"There! Don't say I forget you."
It contained gloves; a good many pairs. Beautiful French gloves of all colours; some dark and useful, others delicate and rare. But I thought it would not be right to accept them, and the tell-tale pink flushed my cheeks.
"Don't scruple; they are not from me. Look at the bit of writing paper."
I pulled it out of the box. A few words were on it, pencilled by Lady Chandos, asking me to wear the gloves.
"It happened that I was going to buy some for my mother to-day. When I went up to her after Black Knave was brought round, I told her Miss Hereford had no gloves left, and she asked me to get you some. There, Miss Hereford."
I supposed I might wear them now. The blushes changed to crimson, and I began putting on a glove to cover my confusion. Mr. Chandos ate his grapes with his usual equanimity.