Pendyce's heart opened a moment and closed again. He said "John!"
and began to dress for dinner.
Mrs. Pendyce found him tying his white tie. She had plucked the first
rosebud from her garden; she had plucked it because she felt sorry
for him, and because of the excuse it would give her to go to his
dressing-room at once.
"I've brought you a buttonhole, Horace. Did you see him?"
"No."
Of all answers this was the one she dreaded most. She had not believed
that anything would come of an interview; she had trembled all day long
at the thought of their meeting; but now that they had not met she knew
by the sinking in her heart that anything was better than uncertainty.
She waited as long as she could, then burst out:
"Tell me something, Horace!"
Mr. Pendyce gave her an angry glance.
"How can I tell you, when there's nothing to tell? I went to his club.
He's not living there now. He's got rooms, nobody knows where. I waited
all the afternoon. Left a message at last for him to come down here
to-morrow. I've sent for Paramor, and told him to come down too. I won't
put up with this sort of thing."
Mrs. Pendyce looked out of the window, but there was nothing to see save
the ha-ha, the coverts, the village spire, the cottage roofs, which for
so long had been her world.
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