Seating herself on a hassock near the fire, Ethel spread out her hands between her face and the blaze. One of her father’s hands lingered for a moment caressingly on her hair.
Although she did not in the least falter in her purpose, her heart was beating much faster than was common, and there was an odd little quaver in her voice when she spoke.
“I have been for a ramble in the park,” she said, “and there I met Everard Lisle. Indeed, it was on purpose to meet him that I went, for we had not seen each other since before he set out on that journey which ended so unexpectedly at Liverpool.”
“Um—um,” murmured the Baronet.
“Then, of course, you had much to say to each other,” remarked John Clare. “Doubtless Mr. Lisle was greatly surprised at what you had to tell him.”
“I don’t think it came upon him altogether as a surprise. Although he did not say so, I fancy he suspected the truth before.”
“I have never found Lisle deficient in perspicacity,” said Sir Gilbert as if speaking to himself.
“I hope neither of you has forgotten that I am Everard Lisle’s promised wife,” said Ethel with a little gasp, as her eyes glanced from one to the other and then were again averted.
“That is a fact which neither your grandfather nor I would be at all likely to forget,” replied John, gravely.
There was a pause. Presently John reached forward and again laid his hand on her hair. “Darling, you have something more to tell us—I feel sure of it,” he said very gently. “Speak. You have nothing to fear.”