Morning broke over a cloudless sky the day of the expedition to the Château de C—, the last but two of the Raynsworths’ sojourn at Cannes.
Philippa woke with that vague sensation of something pleasant to come, which in youth at least—and let us hope in a modified degree in later years too—is almost as familiar as its converse, that sad awaking from temporary forgetfulness when the memory struggles in spite of itself to remember “what it is that is wrong.”
There was only one touch of “wrongness” to cloud the girl’s happy anticipations, and that was the knowledge that this delightful holiday time was so nearly at an end.
“But I am not going to think about that—not to-day, at least,” she said to herself as she dressed. “I am going for once to live entirely in the present.”
And these laudable resolutions she repeated in her light-heartedness to her host for the moment, Mr Gresham, some four or five hours later, when, already arrived at their destination, for, to avoid the heat of the day, they had made an early start, at his request, she was spying the land, otherwise the grounds of the old house, with him in search of the best place for déjeûner.
He commended her resolution warmly.
“And after all,” he continued, “in many cases—or some, at least—pleasant times—I am more honoured than I can express by your considering to-day one of them—are only the precursors of others as agreeable. Let us hope that it may be so in our case. I am determined to get the Marmadukes over to Merle again before long, and this time I trust you will be able to accompany them.”
“I should like it very much indeed, thank you,” said Philippa, “if—” but her sentence was never finished.
Almost as the “if” formed itself on her lips, a sudden pallor crept over her face, and she started slightly.
Mr Gresham looked up in surprise.