It was about four o'clock in the afternoon--a showery one--and Richard North was quickly approaching the gates of the Hall, when he saw some one approaching them more leisurely from the other side. It was Mary Dallory. He did not know she had returned; and his face had certainly a flush of surprise on it, as he lifted his hat to her.
"I arrived home yesterday evening," she said, smilingly. "Forced into it. Dear old Frank wrote the most woebegone letters imaginable, saying he could not get on without me."
"Did you come from Sir Nash Bohun's?" asked Richard.
"Sir Nash Bohun's! No. What put that into your head? I was at Sir Nash Bohun's for a few days some ages ago--weeks, at any rate, as it seems to me--but not lately. I have been with my aunt in South Audley Street."
"London must be lively at this time," remarked Richard rather sarcastically; as if, like Francis Dallory, he resented her having stayed there.
"Very. It is, for the tourists and people have all come back to it. I suppose you would have liked me to remain here and catch the fever. Very kind of you! I was going in to see your father."
He glanced at her with a half smile, and held out his arm after passing the gates.
"I am not sure that I shall take it. You have been quite rude, Mr. Richard."
Richard dropped it at once, begging her pardon. His air was that of a man who has received a disagreeable check. But Miss Dallory had only been joking; she glanced up at him, and a hot flush of vexation overspread her face. Richard held it out once more, and they began talking as they went along. Rain was beginning to fall, and he put up his umbrella.
He told her of Mrs. Cumberland's death. She had not heard of it, and expressed her sorrow. But she had had no acquaintance with Mrs. Cumberland, could not remember to have seen her more than once, and that was more than three years ago: and the subject passed.