Читать книгу Sydney Lisle, the Heiress of St. Quentin онлайн

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Mr. Fenton never laughed outright at anything a lady said to him, but he did smile, a little, half-apologetic smile, at Sydney’s question.

“My dear Miss Lisle, ladies nowadays are never old, and it is particularly difficult to connect that ungallant expression with Lady Frederica. She is quite a woman of the world, I assure you, and—but you will find out all about her for yourself. Ah! here is the train stopping at Dacreshaw Station. Now, my dear young lady, we only have a drive of six miles, and then we shall have reached our journey’s end!”

A footman in a long drab coat with silver buttons was opening the carriage door with a touch of his cockade to Sydney; Ward was hurrying towards her from the second-class compartments of the train; the old station-master was lifting his gold-banded cap as she went by. Sydney believed, in thinking over her arrival afterwards, that she clung in a very undignified way to the arm Mr. Fenton had offered her, with his old-fashioned gallantry. She was thankful when they reached the shelter of the brougham sent to meet her, and Mr. Fenton had handed her into it, and desired Ward to follow in a fly. He considerately made no further attempt to talk to her, and she leaned back luxuriously on the cushions, watching the reflections of the carriage lamps in the puddles, but hardly conscious of anything except fatigue, until the opening of the lodge gates roused her to the knowledge that she had nearly reached the place which it seemed such a mockery to think about as home.