“Are you,” she was commencing; but the new-comer had begun to speak before he heard her.
“I’m very sorry,” he said, lifting his rough cap as he spoke, “I’m afraid there’s some mistake—that is, if I am speaking to Mrs Wentworth?”
“Yes, of course I am Mrs Wentworth. Is the carriage not coming? I thought they—Mrs Helmont, I mean—had sent you to say it was coming. I telegraphed quite early this morning from Maxton. It’s really too—”
“Mamma,” whispered Imogen. Her young eyes had detected a slight, though not unkindly, smile stealing over the stranger’s face at her mother’s tone. “Mamma, I—”
“No,” he replied, interrupting again, though so gently, that one could scarcely have applied to the action so harsh a word. “No, I was not sent, indeed I could not even have volunteered the office, for I happen to know no telegram had reached the Fells this morning. I came out on my own account to have a battle with a young horse.” He glanced in the direction of his dogcart and groom. “It’s all right now, he is thoroughly mastered; and, as far as safety is concerned, you would both be quite safe if you would let me drive you to the Fells. Upon my word, I think it would be the best thing to do.” Imogen all but clapped her hands.
“Oh yes, it would be delightful,” she said.
“How good of you! Do say you will, mamma.” Mrs Wentworth looked both frightened and undecided.
“Are you sure it would be safe?” she said. “And, may I ask who you are?” she added with some hesitation, for that she had been on the verge of some rather tremendous mistake was beginning to be clear to her, “and it is so raining.”
The stranger glanced upwards.
“Not quite so heavily now,” he said. “I think we shall have a fine afternoon. And, after all, shall you not be better off under mackintoshes and umbrellas for half an hour or so, and then safe and warm in the house up there, than shivering down here in that wretched little waiting-room for two or three hours?”