“I'm all right,” she said, leaping out of the buggy, “Mr. Vane brought me home.”
“How are you, Hilary?” said Mr. Flint.
“I'm Austen Vane, Mr. Flint,” said Austen.
“How are you?” said Mr. Flint, as curtly as the barest politeness allowed. “What was the matter with your own horse, Victoria?”
“Nothing,” she replied, after an instant's pause. Austen wondered many times whether her lips had trembled. “Mr. Vane asked me to drive with him, and I came. Won't—won't you come in, Mr. Vane?”
“No, thanks,” said Austen, “I'm afraid I have to go back to Ripton.”
“Good-by, and thank you,” she said, and gave him her hand. As he pressed it, he thought he felt the slightest pressure in return, and then she fled up the steps. As he drove away, he turned once to look at the great house, with its shades closely drawn, as it stood amidst its setting of shrubbery silent under the moon.
An hour later he sat in Hanover Street before the supper Euphrasia had saved for him. But though he tried nobly, his heart was not in the relation, for her benefit, of Mr. Crewe's garden-party.