“An excuse for keeping away from Monksmoor—in the interests of my own tranquillity. The experiment has failed. While you are here, I can’t keep away.”
She still declined to understand him seriously. “Must I tell you in plain words that flattery is thrown away on me?” she said.
“Flattery is not offered to you,” he answered gravely. “I beg your pardon for having led to the mistake by talking of myself.” Having appealed to her indulgence by that act of submission, he ventured on another distant allusion to the man whom he hated and feared. “Shall I meet any friends of yours,” he resumed, “when I return on Monday?”
“What do you mean?”
“I only meant to ask if Mr. Wyvil expects any new guests?”
As he put the question, Cecilia’s voice was heard behind them, calling to Emily. They both turned round. Mr. Wyvil had joined his daughter and her two friends. He advanced to meet Emily.
“I have some news for you that you little expect,” he said. “A telegram has just arrived from Netherwoods. Mr. Alban Morris has got leave of absence, and is coming here to-morrow.”
CHAPTER XLIV. COMPETING.
Time at Monksmoor had advanced to the half hour before dinner, on Saturday evening.