While Andrew was still patiently waiting in London, a south-bound
express swung down the long slope from Shap; past Oxenholme, past
Milnthorpe, past Carnforth, out into the green levels of Lancashire. In
one corner of a first-class carriage sat Jean Walkingshaw, her eyes
smiling approval at that very paper which was to disturb her brother's
serenity a few hours later. Her father sat opposite watching her.
"Well, what do you think of it?" he inquired.
"I think it's most amusing and--and--"
"Spirited?"
"Oh, very spirited!" she laughed. "In fact, I think it's a splendid
speech."
He seemed gratified.
"Some fellows didn't seem to care for it," he observed.
"They must have been very stupid, then!"
"Old buffers generally are," he replied. "Some of the young chaps
thought it first-rate, even though they were a little startled for the
moment. Though why people should feel startled by anything so
self-evident as my remarks beats me. Be hanged to them for silly idiots!
Eh, Jean?"
His momentary expression of chagrin made way for a merry smile, which
set his daughter smiling gaily back.
"If they disagree with you, father, they must be!" she laughed.
They sat silent for a few minutes, Jean watching the green fields and
trees and gates and walls rush past to join the jagged fells behind
them, her father watching her.
"It's awfully good of you taking me back with you," she said presently.
"If it's a treat for you, you deserve it," he answered affectionately;
"and if it's not--well, anyhow, it's pleasant for me having your
company."
"It is a treat for me, though I don't quite see what I've done to
deserve it."
"You have stood by your father, my dear; and one good turn deserves
another. I'd have been most infernally sick if I'd forgotten that
dinner. It gave me the very chance of saying a word or two in season
I'd been longing for. I only hope it will do the old fogies good."
He took up the paper and glanced again at the report.
"'Remarkable speech,' they call it," he continued complacently. "Well,
they are not very far wrong. It _was_ a remarkable speech. Eh, Jean?"
The good gentleman seemed unable to obtain his daughter's approval often
enough. The fact was he had been a trifle disappointed with the attitude
of some of his old friends last night. There was no doubt about it, he
must go to the young folks for the meed of sympathy he deserved.
Jean again looked out of the window, but she ceased to pay much
attention to the backward-drifting landscape. Her heart was too full of
hopes and questionings and restless wonder. In a little she turned to
her father again and said, with an eye so candid and a smile so kind
that many members even of her own sex would never have suspected a hint
of ulterior design--
"Do you know, you are the very best of fathers!"
He replied in the same spirit of affection, and she continued--
"I can't tell you how much I am looking forward to being in London
again! You couldn't have done anything I'd have liked better."
"Yes," he confessed, "London is an amusing place."
"And one always meets so many people one knows there. That is one of its
attractions."
He agreed that it was.
"I wonder who I'll meet this time?"
She spoke with an air of the most innocent speculation, but the nature
of her parent's smile changed subtly.
"Goodness knows who one will meet in London," he replied. "Not Andrew,
we'll hope, eh? I wonder where he is now."
At this change of subject her breast gave a quick little heave that
might have marked a stifled sigh, but she dutifully joined in what she
could not but think an unnecessarily prolonged series of speculations
regarding the movements of a quite uninteresting young man.
But her eyes were very bright indeed and her face distinct with
suppressed excitement as they drove from Euston Station into the life of
the streets. All the while she kept looking out of the cab window, as
though amid the passing myriads she might happen already to recognize
one of those acquaintances she hoped to meet. At last she was in
London! And London in early spring; London with the smuts washed off by
torrential showers and then flooded with glorious sunshine; London with
the young leaves like a thin veil of green on the limes and elms, and
the tassels hanging from the poplars, and the sycamores and horse
chestnuts already casting grateful shade; London with the mowing
machines whirling in the parks and the watering-carts swishing down the
streets--is a fairy city for a young girl with a large hotel to live in,
a generous father, and a lover somewhere hidden in those mysterious
miles of crowds and houses. Jean half wished she could feel a little
less impatient, so that she might relish every passing moment to its
dregs.
Her father, Frank, and she dined sumptuously and went to the most
entertaining play afterwards--a stimulating medley of waltz refrains and
gorgeous clothes and a funny man and fifty pretty girls. She did not
pose as a dramatic critic, and thought it splendid. Then they had supper
at the Savoy, and--so to bed.
But though she had gone to her room, Jean lingered for long before her
open window, looking wistfully over the humming, lamp-lit town. _His_
name had not been mentioned.