“Her daughter would thank you for saying so,” Ryder Morion replied. “One of Madeleine’s fads is a dislike to a long country drive in a big carriage, though she doesn’t say so to her mother.”
“And,” said Eira quickly, “she and Frances have planned to go to Scaling Harbour to-morrow, I know, and Mr Littlewood too, perhaps.”
Betty, in her corner, said nothing.
“Oh, indeed!” remarked the visitor, glancing round. “I was just going to ask for your sister. I thought possibly she was busy about something of the kind to-day.”
“No,” replied Eira, “I don’t know where she is. Betty and I have been looking for her. She may have gone up to the vicarage. Poor Mrs Ferraby has had such a bad cold. Yes, I am almost certain she must be there.”
“We all seem straying in different directions to-day,” said Ryder, the little suggestion of familiar companionship falling not unpleasingly on the ears of those present. “Madeleine is shopping vehemently at Craig Bay. Horace, I know,” and as he mentioned the name he turned half involuntarily to Betty, as if to draw her into the conversation, “is off to Heatherbridge himself this afternoon, by rail. He is, I fancy, a little anxious about his leave, and preferred telegraphing from a better office than yours here.”
Betty looked up with evident interest in her eyes, and spoke for the first time.
“Is he afraid of having to go back to India soon?” she inquired.
“Not to India, as yet at least, but there is some possibility of his having to put in an appearance at the depot, or something of the sort.”
“I think it would be perfectly horrible to have to go to India?” exclaimed Betty abruptly.