Winterborne was too straightforward to influence her further against her better judgment. “Yes—I suppose it is,” he said, repentantly. “I’ll wait till all is settled. What did your father say in that last letter?”
He meant about his progress with the petition; but she, mistaking him, frankly spoke of the personal part. “He said—what I have implied. Should I tell more plainly?”
“Oh no—don’t, if it is a secret.”
“Not at all. I will tell every word, straight out, Giles, if you wish. He said I was to encourage you. There. But I cannot obey him further to-day. Come, let us go now.” She gently slid her hand from his, and went in front of him out of the Abbey.
“I was thinking of getting some dinner,” said Winterborne, changing to the prosaic, as they walked. “And you, too, must require something. Do let me take you to a place I know.”
Grace was almost without a friend in the world outside her father’s house; her life with Fitzpiers had brought her no society; had sometimes, indeed, brought her deeper solitude and inconsideration than any she had ever known before. Hence it was a treat to her to find herself again the object of thoughtful care. But she questioned if to go publicly to dine with Giles Winterborne were not a proposal, due rather to his unsophistication than to his discretion. She said gently that she would much prefer his ordering her lunch at some place and then coming to tell her it was ready, while she remained in the Abbey porch. Giles saw her secret reasoning, thought how hopelessly blind to propriety he was beside her, and went to do as she wished.
He was not absent more than ten minutes, and found Grace where he had left her. “It will be quite ready by the time you get there,” he said, and told her the name of the inn at which the meal had been ordered, which was one that she had never heard of.
“I’ll find it by inquiry,” said Grace, setting out.
“And shall I see you again?”
“Oh yes—come to me there. It will not be like going together. I shall want you to find my father’s man and the gig for me.”