"Anne," said Dolly, "did you pack the sarcenet?"
"Yes, mistress."
"Then tell me again the tale that you were—"
I broke in with such fury that even Dolly ceased.
"My Cousin," I said, "I have a louder voice than either of you; and I shall use it, if you do not listen, so that the whole countryside shall hear. I have to say this—that some time or another to-day I have to have a private conversation with you. It is for you to choose the time and place. If you give me no opportunity now, I shall make it myself, later. Will you hear what I have to say now?"
There was a very short silence.
"Anne," said Dolly, "now that we can hear ourselves speak, will you tell me again the tale that you began last night?"
She said it, not at all lightly, but with a coldness and a distilled kind of anger that gave me no choice. I lifted my hat a little; shook my reins; and once more took up my position ten yards ahead. There was a low murmur of voices behind; and then silence. It appeared that the tale was not to be told after all.
* * * * *
We dined, very late, at a little inn, called the Cross-Keys, between Edmonton and Ware. I remember nothing at all, either of the inn or the host or the food—nothing but the name of the inn, for the name struck me, with a dreary kind of wit, as reflective of the cross-purposes which we were at. We three dined together, in profound silence, except when Dolly addressed a word or two to her maid. As for me, she took the food which I carved, all as if I were a servant, without even such a thank-you as a man gives to a servant.