The young couple drove away amidst the cordial greetings of the small company assembled. Only a few intimate connections of the two families were present.
Moreno had been invited, but he had excused himself on some plausible pretext. He had no desire to thrust himself into an aristocratic milieu, to which he was unaccustomed. He sent the bride a very handsome present, with a card on which was written: “From Andres Moreno, as a souvenir of thrilling times in Spain.”
While Lord Saxham was saying good-bye to the Clandons, Maurice Farquhar conducted Lady Mary to the car which was to drive them back to Ticehurst Park, a distance of about fifty miles.
“You will not forget that you are due to us on the twenty-fifth,” she reminded him as they shook hands.
“Is it likely? I have been looking forward to it ever since you sent me the invitation.”
“I am looking forward to it, too,” said Mary softly, and a rather becoming colour swept over her cheek, making her look quite attractive.
The Earl joined them and mounted the car. He waved his hand cheerfully as they drove off. “Not good-bye, but au revoir, Farquhar. See you on the twenty-fifth.”
He watched the car drive out of sight, thinking of many things. He had loved Isobel with all the fervour of first love, but Isobel was gone from him. And Mary was very sweet and attractive, and took no pains to conceal that she took great pleasure in his society. Well—perhaps some day!
But even in his secret thought the young and ambitious barrister could hardly bring himself to believe that a girl of Mary’s birth and long descent would give herself to a man who had only his brains to recommend him.
Still, this younger generation of the Rossetts had a strange democratic strain in them. Guy had chosen his bride from the small squirearchy. It was openly rumoured in the clubs that, having come into a snug little income from great-aunt Henrietta, Lord Ticehurst had made up his mind to marry his chorus-girl, and defy his father.