“I deplore the scanty nature of your repast,” he said. “But I do not wish to waste time. You shall be more fittingly entertained when we reach Andover.”

Diana drank the wine gratefully, and it seemed to put new life into her. The food almost choked her, but rather than let him see it, she broke a cake in half and started to eat it, playing to gain time: time in which to allow her father a chance of overtaking them before it was too late. She affected to dislike the cake, and rather petulantly demanded a “maid of honour.”

Tracy’s eyes gleamed.

“I fear I cannot oblige you, my dear. When we are married you can go to Richmond, and you shall have maids of honour in plenty.”

He relieved her of her glass, taking it from hands that trembled pitifully.