If he could be there in the cosy old drawing-room, to play to
her while she lay back--drowsing, dreaming by the fire in the scent of
burning cedar logs--the Mozart minuet, or that little heart-catching
tune of Poise, played the first time she heard him, or a dozen other of
the things he played unaccompanied! That would be the most lovely
ending to this lovely day. Just the glow and warmth wanting, to make all
perfect--the glow and warmth of music and adoration!
And touching the mare with her heel, she sighed. To indulge fancies
about music and Fiorsen was safe here, far away from him; she even
thought she would not mind if he were to behave again as he had under
the birch-trees in the rain at Wiesbaden. It was so good to be adored.
Her old mare, ridden now six years, began the series of contented
snuffles that signified she smelt home. Here was the last turn, and the
loom of the short beech-tree avenue to the house--the old manor-house,
comfortable, roomy, rather dark, with wide shallow stairs. Ah, she was
tired; and it was drizzling now. She would be nicely stiff to-morrow. In
the light coming from the open door she saw Markey standing; and while
fishing from her pocket the usual lumps of sugar, heard him say: "Mr.
Fiorsen, sir--gentleman from Wiesbaden--to see you."
Her heart thumped. What did this mean? Why had he come? How had he
dared? How could he have been so treacherous to her? Ah, but he was
ignorant, of course, that she had not told her father.
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