At first Mrs. Wingfield thought that Mr. Wadhurst had not arrived at the station. He was nowhere to be seen. It was not until the train had come in, and Mrs. Wingfield and her maid had taken their seats, that the man appeared--he had hidden himself in the goods office, utilizing his time by an enquiry regarding some crates of machinery which he expected. He went past the first-class carriages without looking into any compartment. When the change was being made at the junction she failed to see him. But when Sandyclifle was reached she found that he had travelled in a second-class compartment, that was next to her first-class carriage. He took no notice of her, but walked with those long strides of his out of the station in front of her.
He was in a position to take notice of her when she met him face to face coming out of the hotel door when she was at the point of entering.
"Go in and make your enquiries, ma'am," he said grimly. "You will find out whether your opinion or mine of your son is the true one."
"What, is it possible that--that--he--they----"
He went away, and she entered the hotel and hastened to the office.
Oh, yes; Mr. Wingfield was staying there, the young lady said.
"Only Mrs. Wingfield. They will be in for lunch at one. They have been sailing since morning," was the reply.
Mrs. Wingfield could scarcely walk so far as the coffee-room. When she managed to do so, she found that her maid had justified the character she had always borne for thoughtfulness: a slice of cold chicken and a small bottle of dry Ayala were on the table in front of her.
"You must eat and drink now," she said. "This promised to be one of your good days; but that rush to the train and that long journey will go far to make it one of your worst if we are not careful."
Of course the maid knew, as did every one at the Manor, of the ridiculous visit of Farmer Wadhurst, and she was one of the few who guessed rightly what was its purport. She was fully aware of all that was meant by this breathless flight to the coast, and, as she had had something like forty years' experience of the world and the wickedness of men and the credulity of women and the ambiguity of the word Love, she had never for a moment doubted what would be the issue of this journey. It was not at all necessary for Mrs. Wingfield to say to her, as she did while the champagne was creaming in the glass: