Mary hesitated. Suddenly there flashed into her mind some of Lilias’s last words of warning.
“Whatever you do, Mary,” she had said, “don’t let Mrs Greville get it into her head that there has been anything mortifying to us—that Arthur has behaved ill, I mean. I couldn’t stand that being said.”
And Mary turned to Mrs Greville with a smile.
“Very well,” she said. “I won’t be silly, and I will go.”
“That’s all right,” said Mrs Greville, and Mary wished she could have said so too.
After all, why not? It was entirely a matter of personal feeling on her part; there was nothing unladylike or unusual in her going with the others to see the show house of the neighbourhood; and yet the bare thought of her doing so by any possibility coming to Mr Cheviott’s ears made her cheeks burn.
“That horrible man-servant!” she said to herself—“supposing he recognises me!”
But there was no good in “supposings.” She determined to make the best of the unavoidable, though it was impossible altogether to refrain from fruitless regrets that her return home had been delayed.
Nothing came in the way of the expedition. The afternoon turned out very fine, remarkably fine and mild for February, and the little party that set out from the Vicarage would have struck any casual observer as cheerful and light-hearted in the extreme.
“Do you care about this sort of thing?” said Mr Morpeth to Mary, when in the course of the walk they happened to fall a little behind the others.