"Yes, I know; but I can't see that it matters. It won't make any difference to the end."
"You are quite right"; and he shook her hand. "Give my love to Margaret," he said, and turned away. "It would be a good thing," he thought, as he went back across the fields to his house, "if we all lived in the country; people get spoiled when they congregate in cities; that woman looked quite indifferent to Vincent's title. Upon my soul, I liked her to-night."
XXXIII
When Tom had travelled all night and driven five miles by the edge of a forest at the foot of a chain of hills, he found himself at the place the Lakemans had taken near Pitlochry. A lovely house, with a wood round it, and through it a view of a glen, and a stream that hurried white and frothing towards the distance. He asked how Miss Lakeman was in a whisper, half expecting to hear that she was dead.
"Miss Lakeman hasn't been very well, sir," the servant answered, and showed him into a charming room where there was a divine view from the open windows. Near the farther window there was a breakfast-table laid daintily for two, with fresh fruit and late roses in a bowl. Lena was lying on a sofa beside it in a muslin gown, just as Mrs. Lakeman had told Dawson Farley she would be. Her face looked thin and pale, her eyes large and restless; she seemed weak and worried, but there was not a sign of dangerous illness about her. She tried to raise herself as he entered, but apparently was not able to do so.
"Tom, dear," she said, "I have been waiting for you—I knew you would come."
"Of course," he answered; "but what is the matter?"