The antithesis between "then" and "now" struck him sharply, as he dismounted. But for that last quarter of an hour with Diana, how jubilantly would he have entered the house! Ten minutes with Lady Felton--a dear, chattering woman!--and all would have been known. He pictured instinctively the joyous flutter in the house--the merry dinner--perhaps the toasts.
As it was, he slipped quietly into the house, hoping that his return might pass unnoticed. He was thankful to find no one about--the hall and drawing-room deserted. The women had gone up to rest before dinner; the men had not long before come back muddy from hunting, and were changing clothes.
Where was Sir James Chide?
He looked into the smoking-room. A solitary figure was sitting by the fire. Sir James had a new novel beside him; but he was not reading, and his cigar lay half smoked on the ash-tray beside him.
He was gazing into the blaze, his head on his hand, and his quick start and turn as the door of the smoking-room opened showed him to be not merely thoughtful but expectant.
He sprang up.
"Is that you, Oliver?"
He came forward eagerly. He had known Marsham from a child, had watched his career, and formed a very shrewd opinion of his character. But how this supreme moment would turn--if, indeed, the supreme moment had arrived--Sir James had no idea.
Marsham closed the door behind him, and in the lamplight the two men looked at each other. Marsham's brow was furrowed, his cheeks pale. His eyes, restless and bright, interrogated his old friend. At the first glance Sir James understood. He thrust his hands into his pockets.
"You know?" he said, under his breath.