It can make no difference to you and me, but two or
three months hence everybody would take it so differently. You know we
said in June--six months."
Her voice was coaxing and sweet. He partly withdrew himself from her,
however.
"At least, you can tell my mother," he said, insisting. "Of course, she
suspects it all."
"Oh, but, dear Oliver!"--she brought her face nearer to his, and he saw
the tears in her eyes--"one's own mother ought to know first of all.
Mamma would be so hurt--she would never forgive me. Let me pay this
horrid visit--and then go home and tell my people--if you really, really
wish it. Afterward of course, I shall come back to you--and Cousin Lucy
shall know--and at Christmas--everybody."
"What visit? You _are_ going to Eastham?--to the Tresham's?" It was a
cry of incredulous pain.
"How _can_ I get out of it, dear Oliver? Evelyn has been _so_ ill!--and
she's been depending on me--and I owe her so much. You know how good she
was to me in the Season."
He lifted himself again on his cushions, surveying her ironically--his
eyes sunken and weak--his aspect ghastly.
"Well, how long do you mean to stay? Is Lord Philip going to be there?"
"What do I care whether he is or not!"
"You said you were longing to know him.
Pages:
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631