The whole situation put him sadly in mind of Claire; but he was not thinking of her as the horses trotted up—he had forgotten all about her when he heard her voice. Next moment the curricle bridged the stream of lamp-light issuing from the hall. And Tom stood among the roses he had strewn, silhouetted against the doorway, without moving hand or foot, or once lifting his unseen gaze from Claire Harding’s face.
What followed seemed to be happening to another man. Daintree cried to him, and he helped the ladies to get down—he touched her hand. Their eyes never met. Daintree jumped down and led Claire on his arm through the roses. Fawcett came up, the curricle was gone, and Tom stood alone in the drive, watching the ladies go upstairs within, followed by their maid and Daintree; and after that he stood watching the staircase until Daintree ran down it and had him by both hands.
“You dear good fellow—you have thought of everything!” he cried. “You couldn’t have done more if you’d been the happy man yourself; and I shall never forget it—especially the flowers!”
“Nor I,” cried Tom bitterly.
“Why, what’s the matter?”
“You might have told me who it was, sir! I recognised Miss Harding at once; her family used to come to our village for the shooting, and her father was my father’s enemy. It’s hard for me to meet her like this after that! I’d have run away if I’d known!”
“Precisely why I didn’t tell you,” rejoined Daintree triumphantly. “Come, come, my good fellow, I know all about the relations between the two families, and you mustn’t flatter yourself that Miss Harding will
