“It does not matter at all,” she said pleasantly, but with a little shudder in case he should take her words too literally.
“But you are cold, I am sure you are,” exclaimed he, beginning to pull off his heavy coat. “You must have this, it will go right over your dress—cloak—I don’t know what it is called.”
“No, no,” she protested. “Please, pray, Mr. Fenton, do not be so absurd. Look, I am all right. The rug only slipped off my knees.”
He tucked it elaborately round her and sat down, resolving to devote himself to her and to nothing else; and, as it was with a view to this purpose that he had timed his journey home, no doubt he was right.
“Where do you expect to meet Mr. Lewis?” he inquired. “I suppose at Llangarth?”
“I am to leave the coach at some toll-gate, I do not quite know where, but the guard understands, I believe, and my uncle will be there. I think it is only just being put up, for the Rebecca-ites destroyed it.”
“I have some reason to know that place,” observed Harry, with a sigh; “I would give a thousand pounds—if I had it—to catch the man who was at the bottom of that night’s work. I tried hard, but I failed.”
“How interesting; do tell me all about it,” said she. “You were there with the military, were you not?”
“The yeomanry, yes. But we did little good.”
“Were you in your regimentals? How I should like to have been there to see the yeomanry!”