"Thank you," cried Mulligan, at once rising into a mood of enthusiastic optimism, "I'll call early and often."
"The fellow is a good-natured ruffian, but I hope I'll be out when he calls," was Thorndyke's remark to Constance as they left the sandy road of Roseboro' station and entered the cool and shaded highway which led to Malvern.
As Constance and Thorndyke drove along the sweet-scented country lanes, crossing streams by rickety bridges and bumping up and down hills, Thorndyke felt himself near Paradise. Constance was so kind to him, so unaffectedly glad to see him. Her country life had freshened up her complexion, and she looked positively girlish, and her high spirits were infectious. She described the house-party—Mrs. Willoughby, half a dozen Virginia cousins of different ages and sexes, a French friend and her husband travelling in America, and Cathcart, the navy man—at whose name Thorndyke felt a sensible diminution of his happiness. Constance was charmed with Malvern Court, and declared it had been the happiest summer of her life—almost.
