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"What were you doing out in the rain?" she asked after the order for drinks had been taken. "Hurrying to get out of it," he said with evasive good humour, "and thinking how much nicer your fogs are than ours," he added quickly. "Anybody come over with you?" asked the bore, agreeably. "No, they're playing bridge over at Mrs. Thursdale's and that lets me out. Beastly headache, too.
"I say, Windomshire, what's the name of that pretty governess over at Thursdale's?" asked the busy bore. "Saw her this morning." The Englishman looked down and flecked the ashes from his cigarette before answering. "Miss Courtenay," he responded. "She's a corking pretty girl." Windomshire went through the unnecessary act of flecking ashes again, but said nothing in reply.
Thursdale's got an English governess for her kids, an English butler, an English bull terrier, and a new Cobden-Sanderson binding on that antique History of England she talks so much about," observed Carter. "And she's beginning to wear her evening gowns on the street in the morning. Besides, her shoes lob over at the heels," remarked the rangy Mrs. Carter.
Vervain should herself sound the first false note. "You?" she exclaimed; and the book she held slipped from her hand. It was crude, certainly; unless it were a touch of the finest art. The difficulty of classifying it disturbed Thursdale's balance. "Why not?" he said, restoring the book. "Isn't it my hour?" And as she made no answer, he added gently, "Unless it's some one else's?"
To the reader is left the privilege of analysing the thoughts which surged through the brains of the bewildered young women, the fears, the doubts, the resentments. "Where where have you been?" at last fell from Miss Thursdale's lips. "Been?" repeated Miss Courtenay, vaguely. "Oh, yes; I've been taking a walk a constitutional. I always do." Eleanor stared harder than ever.
Vervain should herself sound the first false note. "You?" she exclaimed; and the book she held slipped from her hand. It was crude, certainly; unless it were a touch of the finest art. The difficulty of classifying it disturbed Thursdale's balance. "Why not?" he said, restoring the book. "Isn't it my hour?" And as she made no answer, he added gently, "Unless it's some one else's?"
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