Hugh thanked her cordially, and while she sat chatting with Madame Maupoil, sipping her cafe au lait, he sat down and wrote a long letter to the girl he loved so deeply--a letter which reached its destination four days later.
One morning about ten days afterwards, when the sun shone brightly upon the fresh green of the Surrey hills, Mrs. Bond was sitting before a fire in the pretty morning room at Shapley Manor, a room filled with antique furniture and old blue china, reading an illustrated paper. At the long, leaded window stood a tall, fair-faced girl in a smart navy-suit. She was decidedly pretty, with large, soft grey eyes, dimpled cheeks, and a small, well-formed mouth. She gazed abstractedly out of the window over the beautiful panorama to where Hindhead rose abruptly in the blue distance. The view from the moss-grown terrace at Shapley, high upon the Hog's back, was surely one of the finest within a couple of hundred miles of London.
Since Mrs. Bond's arrival there she had had many callers among the nouveau riche, those persons who, having made money at the expense of our gallant British soldiers, have now ousted half the county families from their solid and responsible homes. Mrs. Bond, being wealthy, had displayed her riches ostentatiously. She had subscribed lavishly to charities both in Guildford and in Farnham, and hence, among her callers there had been at least three magistrates and their flat-footed wives, as well as a plethoric alderman, and half a dozen insignificant persons possessing minor titles.
The display of wealth had always been one of Molly Maxwell's games. It always paid. She knew that to succeed one must spend, and now, with her recently acquired "fortune," she spent to a very considerable tune.
"I do wish you'd go in the car to Guildford and exchange those library books, Louise," exclaimed the handsome woman, suddenly looking up from her paper. "We've got those horrid Brailsfords coming to lunch. I was bound to ask them back."
"Can't you come, too?" asked the girl.
"No. I expect Mr. Benton this morning."
"I didn't know he was back from Paris. I'm so glad he's coming," replied the girl. "He'll stay all the afternoon, of course?"
"I hope so. Go at once and get back as soon as you can, dear. Choose me some nice new books, won't you?"
Louise Lambert, Benton's adopted daughter, turned from the leaded window. In the strong morning light she looked extremely charming, but upon her countenance there was a deep, thoughtful expression, as though she were entirely preoccupied.
"I've been thinking of Hugh Henfrey," the woman remarked suddenly. "I wonder why he never writes to you?" she added, watching the girl's face.