"Mr.
Faversham sent us a note. I don't believe he ought to have two sets of
visitors just yet."
Tatham too was surprised. "How on earth Faversham is able to entertain
anybody, I can't think! Undershaw told me last week he must get him away,
as soon as possible, into decent quarters. He doesn't get on very fast."
"He's been awfully ill!" said Lydia, with a soft concern in her voice,
which made the splendid young fellow beside her envious at once of the
invalid. "Well, good-bye! for the moment. We have ordered the pony in
half an hour."
"You'll see a queer place; the piggery that old fellow lives in! You
didn't know Faversham--I think you said--before that day of the
accident?" He looked down on her from the saddle.
"Not the least. I feel a horrid pang sometimes that I didn't warn him of
that hill!"
"Any decent bike ought to have managed that hill all right," said Tatham
scornfully. "Scores of tourists go up and down it every day in the
summer."
Lydia bade him speak more respectfully of his native hills, lest they
bring him also to grief. Then she waved good-bye to him; received the
lingering bow and eager look, which betrayed the youth; thought of "young
Harry with his beaver on," as she watched the disappearing horseman, and
went back for a while to her needlework and cogitation.
That she was flattered and touched, that she liked him--the kind,
courteous boy--that was certain. Must she really assume anything
else on his part--take his advances seriously--check them--put up
restrictions--make herself disagreeable? Why? During her training in
London, Lydia had drunk of the modern spring like other girls.
Pages:
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168