Besides, and perhaps
above all, Verrian had no idea of depriving himself of such a chance as
heaven seemed to offer him.
He advanced with the delicacy of the highest-bred hero he could imagine,
and said, "I am going to Mrs. Westangle's, and I'm afraid I've got the
only conveyance--such as it is. If you would let me offer you half of
it? Mr. Verrian," he added, at the light of acceptance instantly
kindling in her face, which flushed thinly, as with an afterglow of
invalidism.
"Why, thank you; I'm afraid I must, Mr. Merriam," and Verrian was aware
of being vexed at her failure to catch his name; the name of Verrian
ought to have been unmistakable. "The young lady in the office says
there won't be another, and I'm expected promptly." She added, with a
little tremor of the lip, "I don't understand why Mrs. Westangle--"
But then she stopped.
Verrian interpreted for her: "The sea-horses must have given out at
Seasands. Or probably there's some mistake," and he reflected bitterly
upon the selfishness of Miss Macroyd in grabbing that victoria for
herself and her maid, not considering that she could not know, and has no
business to ask, whether this girl was going to Mrs. Westangle's, too.
"Have you a check?" he asked. "I think our driver could find room for
something besides my valise.
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