To her the abrupt announcement
caused no surprise. She had seen that Mr. Blakely was not with his
troop. The jeweled hands slightly twitched, but her voice had the
requisite and conventional drawl as she turned to Miss Wren: "Chasing
some new butterfly, I suppose, and got lost. A--what time did--Angela
return?"
"Hours ago, I fancy. She was dressed when I returned from hospital.
Sergeant Leary seems worse to-day."
"That was nearly six," dreamily persisted Mrs. Plume. "I happened to
be at the side window." In the pursuit of knowledge Mrs. Plume adhered
to the main issue and ignored the invalid sergeant, whose slow
convalescence had stirred the sympathies of the captain's sister.
"Yes, it was nearly that when Angela dismounted," softly said Mrs.
Bridger. "I heard Punch galloping away to his stable."
"Why, Mrs. Bridger, are you sure?" And the spinster of forty-five
turned sharply on the matron of less than half her years. "She had on
her white muslin when she came to the head of the stairs to answer
me."
Mrs. Bridger could not be mistaken. It was Angela's habit when she
returned from her rides to dismount at the rear gateway; give Punch
his _conge_ with a pat or two of the hand; watch him a moment as he
tore gleefully away, round to the stables to the westward of the big
quadrangle; then to go to her room and dress for the evening, coming
down an hour later, looking fresh and sweet and dainty as a dewy
Mermet.
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