And in the relief of this warm sympathy Mildred held out her hand.
“Thank you, Mr Denis, for speaking so,” she said; “you are the first who seem to have felt as I did.”
Then she hurried on.
She found her husband on the sofa, but looking feverish and uneasy.
“How?” he began, but she interrupted him.
“Is Mr Lyle not here?” she said.
“Mr Lyle!” Reginald repeated. “What do you mean? You had scarcely gone when a special messenger brought this from him;” and he held out a short note of excessive regret and apology from the young priest, at finding the utter impossibility of reaching Saint X’s in time for the morning service. “I have been on thorns,” said the Rector, “and I could do nothing. There was no one to send. Did Grenfell preach, or was there no sermon?”
Mildred sat down, feeling strangely bewildered.
“I cannot explain it,” she said. “Reginald, tell me what is Mr Lyle’s personal appearance? Can he have come after all? even after despatching his message? Is he slight and fair—rather tall and almost boyish-looking, but with most sweet yet keen eyes, and a wonderful voice?”
The Rector could hardly help smiling.