But this remark drove his sister-in-law to the other end of the room, so that she lost a certain straightforward and complimentary speech that gave a great deal of pleasure to Michael, and which he never could be induced to repeat to her.
No one could doubt Audrey's happiness after the first few days of strangeness had worn off, and she had grown used to her new position as Michael's fiancée. Michael had been very careful not to scare her at first—he had no wish to bring back the shyness that had made their first evening such a misery to them both—and his forbearance was rewarded when he saw the old frankness and joyousness return, and Audrey became her own sweet self again.
Michael was an ardent lover, but he was not an exacting one: Audrey could have had as much freedom as she needed during their brief engagement, but she had ceased to desire such freedom.
She remembered sometimes with faint, unavoidable regret that Cyril's demonstrativeness had at times wearied her; but she had no such feeling with Michael: when he left her for a few days to complete the purchase of a pretty little property he had secured for their future home in one of the loveliest spots in Surrey, she was as restless during his absence as ever Geraldine had been.
Michael was surprised to find how she had missed him, and how overjoyed she was at his return; but he never told her so, or ever alluded to the mistake that had doomed them both to such misery.
'My innocent darling! how could she know that I loved her, when I never told her so? It was I who would have been to blame if she had married Cyril. God grant that in that case she might never have found out her mistake; but I do not know. She would always have cared too much for Michael, and he would have found it out in time;' but he kept such thoughts to himself.
Audrey had no objection to offer when Michael pleaded that they should be married early in August. He had waited long enough, she knew, and there was nothing to gain by waiting.
But she had a long talk with her mother and Geraldine about Mollie, whom she still regarded as her special protégée.
'Michael has Kester,' she suggested; 'so I daresay he will not mind Mollie sharing our home.'
'You will make a great mistake if you ask him any such question,' returned Geraldine, in her practical, matter-of-fact way. 'Kester will be at Oxford, and during the long vacation he will join some reading party or other—Michael told me so; but Mollie would want a home all the year round. Why do you not leave her at Woodcote? Mother will be dreadfully dull without you at first, and, of course, I cannot always be with her. You are very fond of Mollie, are you not, mother?'