"I shall drive down to Cleveland Terrace," she continued, "on my way to Aunt Sara. There may be some little thing Mollie requires, and Waveney will be glad of news." She spoke rather hurriedly, as though she feared Doreen might raise some objection. But Doreen, who could read her sister like a book, merely nodded assent.
So all the morning Waveney wandered about the common like a little lost spirit, until her limbs ached with weariness; and after luncheon Noel arrived.
Mr. Ingram had sent him, he said, bringing out the words rather sheepishly. They had been shopping all the morning, tearing up and down Regent's Street and Bond Street in a hansom, and they had had luncheon at the Army and Navy Stores. Then they had called at the door of Number Ten, and Noel had seen his father. Things were much the same, and he sent his love, and so on.
Althea had already started when Noel made his appearance, so it was too late to prevent her fruitless journey to Chelsea.
There was nothing Mollie wanted, Noel declared, bluntly, and he chuckled as he thought of all the things Ingram had ordered. "My word, there's no mistake about his being a viscount," he thought. "If he turned out to be a duke I should hardly be surprised."
Waveney was very fond of her young brother, but his society failed to give her comfort; and Noel, on his side, was so awed and depressed by her sad face and unusual silence, that he could find little to say. It was quite a relief when his visit was over, and he had to return to Eaton Square.
But one word he did say as Waveney followed him into the hall.
"I say, Wave, I suppose you will send your compliments or kind regards to Mr. Ingram"—and here Noel cleared his throat. "He is awfully cut up, you know, and all that."
"Oh, yes, you may give him my kind regards," returned Waveney, in a listless tone. Then her conscience accused her of ingratitude. "Yes, certainly, Noel, my kindest regards. I know how good he has been; he is actually going to have that great throat doctor down to see dear Mollie."
"I know that," replied Noel, mysteriously. "I know a thing or two that would make you stare. He is a good old sort; he is as good as they make them, and he deserves to turn up trumps." And with this peculiar form of blessing—which was nevertheless genuine in its way—Noel adjusted his pince-nez, and marched off with his head in the air as usual.