"It is pleasant to see you again," she said.
He never could recall in what words he replied—nor if indeed he effected reply.
Conventional words went between them before she and her mother took their departure; conventional words again at a chance meeting on the following day and again when the parties met by arrangement at a matinee. His week drew to a close. As its end neared he began to resist the mute and distant adoration which he had felt must be his part when he had thought of meeting her again and which, without pang, he at first accepted as his part now that they were come together. But when the very hours could be counted that would see her gone from him again he felt that attitude could no longer be endured. Insupportable to pass into the future without a closer sign of her!—insupportable even though the sign proved one that should reward his temerity by sealing her forever from his lips. He nerved himself to the daring—the very opportunity was hard to seek. Rollo, in the slightly selfish habit that belongs to delicate persons accustomed, as he was accustomed, to their own way, was ever desirous of having Percival to himself alone. He saw plenty of Dora at other times, he said (deliberately avoiding a chance of meeting her on one occasion); and when Percival, not daring to do more, made scruples on grounds of mere politeness, "But, bless you, she'll think nothing of it," Rollo said carelessly: "She's made of ice—Dora. I like her all right, you know. But she's not keen on anything. She's got no more feeling than—well, ice," and he laughed and dismissed the subject.
Had she not? It was Percival's to challenge it.
The chance came on the eve of the morrow that was to see his friend's departure for Italy and his own for a farewell to Aunt Maggie and so back to Japhra again. The Esparts came over to dinner at Baxter's hotel—came in response to Lady Burdon's private and urgent request of Mrs. Espart. The week of Percival's visit had tried her sorely. Night by night and every night, as she told Mrs. Espart, she had had that dreadful nightmare of hers again—that girl to whom she cried "I am Lady Burdon," and who answered her: "Oh, how can you be Lady Burdon?;" to whom she cried "I hold," and, who answered her, "No, you do not—Nay, I hold."
Aunt Maggie might have explained it. Mrs. Espart laughed outright. "That? Good gracious, I thought you had forgotten that long ago."
"So I had—so I had. I never thought of it again from the day I told you until last Wednesday night—the day Percival came to us. Since then every night..."
She paused before the last words and stopped abruptly after them.
"Well, my dear! You're not putting down to poor Percival what must be the fault of Mr. Baxter's menus, surely?"
Lady Burdon said without conviction: "No—no, I'm not. Still, it began then—and I don't like him now—don't care for Rollo to be so attached to him now—and had words with Rollo about it—and perhaps that was the reason and is the reason. Anyway, do come to dinner to-night—distract my thoughts perhaps—I can't face that nightmare again. It's on my nerves."