And the opportunity came in the shape of Quarrier.

As though wedlock were actually the sanctuary which an alarmed nation pretends it to be! Now, approaching the threshold of a third and last season, and having put away her almost meaningless mourning, there had stolen into her sense of security something irksome in the promise she had made to give Quarrier a definite answer before winter.
Perhaps it had been the lack of interest in the people at Shotover, perhaps a mental review of her ancestors' capricious records--perhaps a characteristic impulse that had directed a telegram to Quarrier after a midnight confab with Grace Ferrall.
However it may have been, she had summoned him.

And now he was on his way to get his answer, the best whip, the most eagerly discussed, and one of the wealthiest unmarried men in America.
Lingering irresolutely, considering with idle eyes the shadows lengthening across the sun-shot moorland, the sound of Siward's even voice aroused her from a meditation bordering on lassitude.
She answered vaguely.

He spoke again; all the agreeable, gentle, humourous charm dominant once more--releasing her from the growing tension of her own thoughts, absolving her from the duty of immediate decision.
"I feel curiously lazy," she said; "perhaps from our long drive." She seated herself on the turf.

"Talk to me, Mr.Siward--in that lazy way of yours." What he had to say proved inconsequent enough, an irrelevant suggestion concerning the training of field-dogs for close covert work and the reasons for not breaking such dogs on quail.