“My darling,” said her father, “don’t look so depressed. I didn’t mean to grumble.”
“Oh no, papa. It isn’t you at all. I shall be glad to be at home again; won’t you? Thank you very much for letting me go round by town.”
Mrs Englewood’s drawing-room—but looking very different from the last time we saw it. Mrs Englewood herself, with a more anxious expression than usual on her pleasant face, was sitting by the open window, through which, however, but little air found its way, for it was hot, almost stifling weather.
“It is really a trial to have to come back to town before it is cooler,” she was saying to herself, as the door opened and Lady Margaret, in summer travelling gear, came in.
“So you are really going, dear Maisie,” said her hostess. “I do wish you could have waited another day.”
“But,” said Maisie, “you will let me know at once what you hear from Mrs Selby. I cannot help being unhappy, Gertrude, and, of course, what you have told me has made me still more self-reproachful, and—and ashamed.”
She was very pale, but a sudden burning blush overspread her face as she said the last words.
“I do so hope he will recover,” she added, trying to speak lightly, “though if he does I earnestly hope I shall never meet him again.”
“Even if I succeed in making him understand your side, and showing him how generously you regret having misjudged him?” said Mrs Englewood. “I don’t see that there need be any enmity between you.”
“Not enmity, oh no; but still less, friendship,” said Maisie. “I just trust we shall never meet again. Good-bye, dear Gertrude: I am so glad to have told you all. You will let me know what you hear?” and she kissed Mrs Englewood affectionately.