“I think I shall just say nothing. I hope he will ride this afternoon. Will you go with him?”
“I think not. He won’t want anyone. I know Laurie.”
The other looked up at her sideways in a questioning way, and Maggie went on with a kind of slow decisiveness.
“He will be queer at lunch. Then he will probably ride alone and be late for tea. Then tomorrow—”
“Oh! my dear, Mrs. Stapleton is coming to lunch tomorrow. Do you think he’ll mind?”
“Who is Mrs. Stapleton?”
The old lady hesitated.
“She’s—she’s the wife of Colonel Stapleton. She goes in for what I think is called New Thought; at least, so somebody told me last month. I’m afraid she’s not a very steady person. She was a vegetarian last year; now I believe she’s given that up again.”
Maggie smiled slowly, showing a row of very white, strong teeth.
“I know, Auntie,” she said. “No; I shouldn’t think Laurie’ll mind much. Perhaps he’ll go back to town in the morning, too.”
“No, my dear, he’s staying till Thursday.”
There fell again one of those pleasant silences that are possible in the country. Outside the garden, with the meadows beyond the village road, lay in that sweet September hush of sunlight and mellow color that seemed to embalm the house in peace.