“Perhaps,” she said sadly, “perhaps it is.”
CHAPTER XXXIV.
One morning Strange came into his wife’s boudoir with his whip in his hand, and a light overcoat on his arm.
“I am going out beyond Highgate,” he said, “to see a pointer pup, it is a pretty drive, would you like to come?”
She had been thinking with a sort of dread of the hours that must run before the darkness came, and of the numbers of times she would be expected to smile, to return brilliant answers to dull questions, and generally to keep up her superb deception.
She had a dozen engagements but she decided to go with him.
He drove a high mail-phaeton that ran very lightly.
“That Highgate hill is a bad one,” he said as they were starting, giving the brake a sharp tug, “I don’t think this will cave in easily, however.”
“Besides, Hengist and Horsa can be trusted anywhere,” said Gwen, who knew nothing of ordinary nervousness.
“I wouldn’t trust anything in horseflesh down a steep hill with the brake off. Look down that mesh of streets! Taking it in patches there isn’t a more hideous, sordid, mean hole in the world than this London, just look through that lane!”