In the house all was quiet. He shut himself in the parlour with the bottle of Scotch, and, when Phœbe called him to dinner, he said he had a headache and did not want to be disturbed. Upstairs Fawnie sang the same song over and over to her baby.
"But my dear fellow," said Mr. Ramsey, anxiously, "you look very flushed. I hope you have not been exerting in the heat."
"Sitting here all day."
"Then I am afraid you're not quite well. But it's enough to make anyone ill. I'm sure I have sweated five pounds off pedalling those seven miles from Brancepeth three times to-day." But he still looked quite fresh. And he spoke with cheerful matter-of-factness.
"Is Miss Fawnie ready?" he asked.
"Who the devil? Oh, yes—Miss Fawnie. I've not told her yet," Derek replied stupidly.
"Not told her? Oh, my dear fellow! Do you want me to? Shall I?" His tone was that of one who indulges a petulant child.
"No. The fact is—" What was the fact? For the life of him he could not tell. The one fact he seemed able to grasp was that Grace had turned her face from him that morning in the road. All else seemed a stupid bungle from which he was too tired to extricate himself.
"Do you want me to tell her?" repeated Mr. Ramsey.
"No. I'll go. I don't care. Tell her if you like."
"Very well. I'll leave you the ring. You remember you asked me to buy it? A very nice one, I think. I'll make the service as short as I can, since you are not well. Upstairs is she? I hear her voice. She sings very sweetly."
Derek heard him decisively mount the stairs, then came the sound of a knock, followed by his vibrant, pleasant
