But Preston soon dispelled her fancies. She was excited, he said, unstrung. “What could happen to anybody at a ball at the Albert Hall?” he exclaimed, laughing. He had been in hotter places in France and had come through all right—except for that bit of shrapnel in his leg. Yes, he agreed with her that it would be best for the news of their engagement not to be announced until her parents had been informed.
“How do you think they will take it?” he asked. “Will they be pleased, or not?”
“Probably not,” she answered lightly. “At least, if they are pleased, it will be the first time they have ever approved of anything I have done on my own initiative. And then there is the question of money. I have a small income of my own, as you know, and lately I inherited a comfortable little nest egg, and my stepmother naturally hopes that in the ordinary course of events I may some day make over some of my capital to her and to my father. Our marriage will dispel that delusion,” and she laughed.
“You say naturally,” Preston said, “but I think it most unnatural she should think anything of the sort.”
“Ah, you don’t know my stepmother. But let us change the subject. Whenever I begin to think about my stepmother something unpleasant is sure to happen. Don’t think me superstitious. I am not, as a rule, but on that point I am extremely superstitious, because what I say has often happened.”
As they came out into Fleet Street, a little later, they met Hopford hurrying to his office.
“Sorry I can’t wait,” he said, “but I’ve got hold of something rather good to-day, something which will interest you both, by the way, and I have to write the story before seven. See you at the ball on Thursday, I suppose?”
“You have promised to have supper with us there,” Preston said with a laugh.
“So I have! I shouldn’t have forgotten it on Thursday night, you may be sure. It ought to be a festive evening.”
He raised his hat and turned down Whitefriars Street, and Preston looked about for a taxi. But there was not one to be seen which was disengaged.