"Some of it. Not too much. Give the rest to Dr. Tuxford Somers." The Countess's suggestion of entire despair at this daughter was almost imperceptible, but entirely conclusive.
"Well—he's married! Why shouldn't I?"
"As you please, my dear!"
The Countess appeared to decline further discussion. She said:—"Don't be very late—you are coming back to lunch, of course?"
"If I can. It depends."
"My dear! With Sir Spencer Derrick here, and the Openshaws!"
"I'll be back if I can. Can't say more than that! Good-bye!" And the Countess had to be content. The story is rather sorry for her, for it is a bore to have a lot of guests on one's hands, without due family support.
The grey mare's long stride left John Costrell's fat cob a mile behind, in less than two. Her hoofs made music on the hard road for another two, and then were assourdi by a swansdown coverlid of large snowflakes that disappointed the day's hopes of being fine, and made her sulky with the sun, extinguishing his light. The gig drew up at Strides Cottage in a whitening world, and Tom Kettering had to button up the seats under their oilskin passenger-cases, in anticipation of a long wait.
But Tom had not a long wait, for in a quarter of an hour after her young ladyship had vanished into Strides Cottage, she returned, telling him she was going to be late, and should not want him. He might drive back to the Towers, and—stop a minute!—might give this card to her mother. She scribbled on one of her own cards that she would not be back to lunch, and told Tom he might come again about five. Tom touched his hat as a warrior might have touched his sword-hilt.