expressive, and forthcoming, dressed gaily
‘May I ask how long you will be staying in London, Miss Carteret?’
‘With such prescience as you possess, Mr Glapthorn,’ she replied, ‘I imagine you can answer that question for yourself.’
‘Prescience? What can you mean?’
‘You wish me to suppose, then, that meeting you here is coincidental?’
‘You may suppose what you wish,’ I said, as genially as I could, ‘or, if you cannot accept the fact of coincidence, perhaps you would be more comfortable with the notion of Fate.’
At this, she managed a contrite little smile, and asked to be excused for her ill humour.
‘Your kind note of acceptance to my father’s interment was received,’ she went on, ‘but we were disappointed not to have observed you amongst the company.’
‘I am afraid I was a little late in arriving. I paid my respects to your father – as my firm’s representative, as well as in a personal capacity – after the carriages had departed; and then, having an urgent engagement here in town, and not wishing to intrude on you or your family, I returned immediately.’
‘We were hoping to receive you at the Dower House again,’ she said, taking off her glasses and placing them in her reticule. ‘You were expected, you know. But you had your own reasons for not coming, I dare say.’
‘I did not wish to intrude, as I said.’
‘As you said. But you put yourself to a great deal of trouble on our account in travelling all the way to Northamptonshire only to return immediately. I hope you met your engagement?’
‘It was no trouble, I assure you.’
‘You are kind to say so, Mr Glapthorn. And now, if you will excuse us. Perhaps coincidence – or Fate – will arrange for our paths to cross again.’
Mademoiselle Buisson gave me a curtsey and a smile; but Miss Carteret merely inclined her head a little, in the way that I had seen her do to Daunt, and passed on down the steps.
Of course, I could not allow them to go and so, feigning a sudden disinclination to spend such an uncommonly fine November day looking at dull pictures, requested the honour of accompanying them a little way, if they were proceeding on foot. Mademoiselle announced brightly that they had thought of walking down to Green-park, which I agreed was a capital prospect on such an afternoon.
‘Then come with us, by all means, Mr Glapthorn!’ cried Mademoiselle. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Emily?’
‘I do not mind, if you do not, and if Mr Glapthorn has nothing better to do,’ came the reply.
‘Then it is settled,’ said her friend, clapping her hands. ‘How delightful!’
And so off we set together across the Square, Miss Carteret on my right hand, Mademoiselle Buisson on my left.
Once in the open spaces of the Park, Miss Carteret’s earlier irritation seemed to lessen. Little by little, we began to speak of things other than the late tragic events at Evenwood, and by the end of the afternoon, with the sun beginning to decline, we were talking openly and easily, as if we had all been old friends.
Towards four o’clock we walked into Piccadilly, and the ladies waited by the kerb while I secured a hansom.
‘May I tell the driver where you wish to be taken?’ I asked innocently.
She gave the address of her aunt’s house in Wilton-crescent, and I handed her into the cab, followed by Mademoiselle Buisson, who smiled at me in a dreamy way as she settled herself into her seat.
‘Miss Carteret, it is presumptuous, I know, but will you allow me to call on you – and Mademoiselle Buisson?’
To my surprise, she did not hesitate in her reply.
‘I am at home – I should say at my aunt’s home – every morning from eleven.’
‘May I come on Friday, then, at eleven?’ I confess that I asked the question, thinking she might invent some excuse for not being able to receive me; but instead, to my surprise, she leaned her head on one side and simply said:
‘Of course you may.’
As the hansom pulled away, she pushed down the window, looked back at me, and smiled.
A simple smile. But it sealed my fate.
On Friday, as arranged, I called upon Miss Carteret at her aunt’s house in Wilton-crescent. I was shown into a large and elegant drawing-room, where I found Miss Carteret and her friend seated together on a little sofa by the window, each apparently engrossed in reading.
‘Mr Glapthorn! How nice!’
It was Mademoiselle who spoke first, jumping up to pull a small arm-chair closer to their sofa, and begging me to sit down.
‘We have been so dreadfully dull here this morning, Mr Glapthorn,’ she said, resuming her place next to Miss Carteret, and tossing her book onto a nearby table. ‘Like two old spinsters. I declare I might have gone quite mad if
