Horace entered, looking glum; he was feeling--as he phrased it--“a bit of a fool.” An ecstatic or an anxious welcome would have annoyed him. Edith met his eyes smiling, but she did not rise from her chair nor did she burst into nervous questions; she merely said:
“My aunt told me to tell you, Horace, that she was suffering from an acute attack of discretion, so that she would be unable to see you this evening; it is usually followed by a relapse into curiosity, which she expects to take place to-morrow; and you may stay until half-past ten.”
Horace sat down beside her and smiled. It was really very peaceful and jolly; the place seemed full of flowers; it was almost like their being together at Como. Edith was dressed in pale soft green; he liked it extremely. He took her hand and held it.
“Well, I’m rather glad we’re alone,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m awfully late, but I couldn’t help it. Etta kept me such a confounded time--bush-beating--and then I had to send off the tutor, who’s a beast--and has frightened the little chap silly about you; and altogether it’s been rather a rough passage.”
“Poor Horace,” said Edith softly, “what a shame! But you mustn’t be worried; we’ll straighten it all out between us somehow.”
“But you won’t like it--you won’t like it, Edith!” he exclaimed, looking at her with helpless, appealing eyes.
It was a look which women who love know how to answer--when they are loved in return. Edith drew a sudden quick breath, then she said:
“My dear boy, I didn’t expect we’d get everything all at once; it wouldn’t be any fun if we did. Why, it’s a regular campaign, and this is the first skirmish.”
“No, it’s defeat, Edith,” he said, more quietly. “I’m afraid it’s defeat.”
“Then tell me,” she answered. “I can bear defeat, Horace.”