“It doesn’t matter,” Despard replied, as he got into the carriage; “but did you not get my message?”
“Oh, yes; but I thought it was just that you were tired and bored. What in the matter, dear Despard? You don’t look the least like yourself.”
“I fancy it was the sun this morning,” he said.
“But it’s passing off, I think.”
Madeline felt by no means sure that it was so.
“I am so sorry,” she repeated, “and so vexed with myself. Do you know who the young man was that gave me your message?”
Despard shook his head.
“It was Mr Conrad Fforde, Lord Southwold’s nephew and heir—heir at least to the title, but to little else.”
“So I should suppose,” said Norreys indifferently.
“The Southwolds are very poor.”