Her mother was at home and disengaged, or would, no doubt, speedily be so, when she heard of his visit, Mary told him. Then he got off his horse, and she led him into the drawing-room.
“Mamma is in the study, I think,” she said, lingering a little. Then with some hesitation and rising colour, “I had a letter from Lilias this morning. She is coming home the day after to-morrow.”
“So soon?” exclaimed Captain Beverley, delightedly. “That is better than I hoped for. Mary,” he went on, impulsively, holding out both his hands and taking hers into their clasp, “Mary—you will forgive my calling you so?—you know what I have come about, don’t you? You will wish me joy—you have always been our friend, I fancy, somehow.”
“Our friend,” repeated Mary, inquiringly. “You are sure, then,” she went on, “that—that it will be all right with Lilias? Yes, mamma told me of your letter—you don’t mind?—it is quite safe with me.”
“Mind, of course not. But how do you mean about Lilias?” he asked, with a quick return of his misgiving. “Nothing has happened that I have not been told of?”
His bright face grew pale. Mary, with quick sympathy, hastened to re-assure him.
“Oh, no, no,” she said, “I don’t know what you have heard—but it isn’t that. Nothing of that kind could make Lilias change of course. I only mean—it is a long time since you have seen her, and—and—you went away so suddenly, you know. Lilias has never said anything to me, but I have been at a loss what to think about her.”
“As to what she has been thinking about me, do you mean?”
“Yes,” said Mary, bluntly.
Arthur’s face cleared.