“It seems so queer. What in the world put such a thing in her head, and why wasn’t I told? She will be very vexed at my not having gone near her,” he said with considerable annoyance in his tone.
“Not at all. She had not in the least expected to find you here. She had no reason to do so—you know you meant to give her a surprise by walking in to-morrow morning. She told me to tell you she knew you were dancing and she didn’t want to interrupt you.”
“All the same, I wish I had known,” Sir Philip persisted. “I can’t get over the idea of her having been here and my not knowing.”
“She didn’t stay long,” said his cousin. “She was sitting in the small drawing-room all the time, and I assure you she wasn’t in the least, not the very least, vexed at not seeing you. She’s expecting you home to-morrow.”
“It was such an odd fancy of hers to come,” Philip repeated. “Why—it’s years since I knew her go to anything of the kind. Are you sure she’s gone, Ermie? May she not be still in the cloak-room, perhaps?”
“No, I’m sure she’s gone. I wish you’d believe what I say,” said Ermine, looking slightly irritated by his pertinacity.
“Oh, well, I suppose it’s all right. But I shall be too late for the other friend I wanted to say good-night to. Excuse me, Ermie—I’ll be back in two minutes,” and before his cousin could think of any further excuse for detaining him he was gone.
“It will be too provoking,” thought she, “if he goes running against them just as they’re leaving. I wonder who it is he wants to say good-bye to.” Philip hastened as fast as he could to the hall—a sharp rush of cold air told that the door was open, and as he got up to it the sound of wheels announced that some one had just driven away.
“Whose carriage was that?” he inquired of one of the servants standing about. The man was a stranger and did not recognise him.
“Lady Cheynes’s,” he replied. “It was the Cheynesacre carriage, sir.”