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Lord Crawleigh, indignant that Barbara should desert her own party the first night, but vaguely disquieted that she was ill enough to go to bed of her own volition, peeped into her room on his way down to dinner. There was no answer to his jerky, sharp call of "Barbara" and he turned on the light.
And the intimacy and tenderness of it were half spoiled even then, for Lady Crawleigh followed her maid into the room, enquired affectionately how Barbara was feeling and settled down to read instructive extracts from The Times. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Crawleigh Abbey seemed suddenly very big and deserted.
It was her favourite boast that she sincerely tried to make allowances for all and permitted ill-speaking of none. In the years before the war, when Lady Barbara's friends were wondering whether they really could continue to know her, Mrs. Shelley remained embarrassingly loyal. "I haven't seen her for months." "She's been nursing at Crawleigh all this time, simply wearing herself out.
Every one tells me that they're desperately in love with each other. Of course Crawleigh wouldn't hear of it, but he doesn't know what to do. You know what the girl is! If you oppose her. . . . It's an absurd position. You must come along and meet them. And I'll arrange a little party. I think you'd be amused." "All the restaurants are so crowded nowadays," said Eric.
Shelley completed her introductions, and then crossed to Eric's corner. "Glad to see me again?" she whispered. "I've decided that you're to lunch with us on Saturday." "And I've decided to gladden the hearts of my family by going down to Winchester," he answered. "But you must go later. I'll come with you, if you'll find a practicable train; I'm going to Crawleigh.
Lady Crawleigh felt that prudence, after so long delay, might have timed its coming more opportunely; a houseful of young people could be trusted, in dealing with her sentences, to complete the ruin which her husband had begun; but late hours, excitement and the legacy of her illness had reduced Barbara's strength until Dr.
"Two minutes ago it was, 'Ahaw, Lady Crawleigh, I should prescribe . . . And one minute ago you became earnest and loving and grand-paternal, with your fond advice! Eric, I love you when you're like that! Now don't be self-conscious! 'Your ideahs of tidiness, aw, Lady Barbarah . . . Whatever people may say, I believe you're intelligent. In time you'll understand."
I'm going down to Lashmar for the week-end and, if you can meet me for thirty seconds at Crawleigh station, I'll come straight on to you on Saturday and then get a train back to Winchester. I can't come to the Abbey, obviously, or every one would want to know what was up. The business in hand won't take a moment to discuss, but it's ABSOLUTELY IMPERATIVE that we should discuss it at once."
"Rumour has been busy with the names of Mr. Lane and of Lady Barbara Neave, only daughter of the Marquess of Crawleigh.
If things seem to hang fire, get Gerry Deganway to give imitations of His Excellency." Lady Crawleigh bridled at the suggestion. "That's not at all a respectful way to speak of your father," she observed reprovingly. "Well, His ex-Excellency, then. That no better? Sorry. He's very amusing Gerry, I mean. Why not get father to give imitations of Gerry? In its way, that ought to be just as funny."
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