"Can't say I'm keen about it," he answered in a depressed voice.
"If you like," she said, slightly piqued, "I could easily go with Sylvia and papa."
"All right—or, I know—don't let us go at all!" said Chetwode. He was now in the hall, and she followed him. "Anything I can do for you, darling?" Then he added, "Don't move for a minute!" He was admiring her golden hair against the tapestry, and smiled with the real pride of the collectionneur. "Yes, you must really have your portrait painted, Felicity," he said. "Sargent's the man, I think—or—well, we'll talk it over." He went out, and the door banged relentlessly.
Felicity moved back to the library and looked in the little carved silver mirror that lay on the table. She saw tears gradually stealing into her beautiful blue eyes, enlarging them, and she grew so sorry for the lovely little sad face—in fact for herself!—that she hastily put down the looking-glass, ran upstairs, and rang for her maid to dress her to go out.
Chetwode completely failed in his mission, as the china-man, not expecting him to call so soon, had gone out for the day. He strolled down the Brompton Road, stopping from time to time to look at various pretty things in little curiosity shops, and then he thought, as a contrast, he would have a look at the Albert Memorial. But, changing his mind again, he went a little way into Kensington Gardens. Suddenly, he thought he recognised two people, rather beautiful people, who were sitting under a tree, talking together with animation. It was his sister-in-law, Sylvia, with her little dog, and Woodville. Before they saw him, Sylvia got up and walked quickly towards the Row with the dog. Woodville looked after her, and then strolled slowly towards the bridge. How well the sylvan surroundings suited them! Sylvia was a wood nymph in a fashionable dress; Woodville, a faun in Bond Street clothes. Chetwode smiled to himself. Then for a moment he was surprised.... It seemed odd to see the secretary so far from his usual haunts. Why should Sylvia sit in Kensington Gardens with him, and then go on alone to the Row? However, he thought, it wasn't his business. As he walked towards Knightsbridge, it struck him that he would tell Felicity. She would understand, and explain. Then he thought he wouldn't tell Felicity. He had a curious delicate dislike to mentioning anything he had seen accidentally. He would chaff Sylvia about it when he saw her again.... No, he wouldn't; it would be a shame to make a girl uncomfortable. He would mention it to Woodville. Yes, that was it; he would chaff Woodville about it....
Seeing a hansom, he jumped into it and went to the Club. As he drove there he remembered vaguely several little things that he had noticed subconsciously before, and he began to think that probably Woodville and Sylvia were in love with each other. What more natural! In that case one wouldn't talk about it. It might annoy them. There was nothing on earth Lord Chetwode disliked so much as the idea of anything that would annoy any one.
So he never did tell Woodville nor anybody else. When it did not slip his memory, his almost morbid dread of anything disagreeable prevented his mentioning it, and he left London without having spoken of the incident. Probably it was of no importance after all.
At this time Woodville was really miserable. Their position was more difficult than ever. Of course he had kept his word to her, and written to Ridokanaki that he could not accept the offer. They remained privately engaged, and waiting; [Savile] their only confidant. He had got rid of the little studio, and was half sorry and half relieved not to be able to go there as a retreat. It had some painful but also some exquisite associations. Since he had made the sacrifice of Athens for Sylvia—for it was a sacrifice—he was, of course, more in love with her than before. That quarter of an hour in Kensington Gardens this morning was the only clandestine appointment they had ever made in the course of five years.
How often he remembered the day he had first arrived at the Croftons! Sylvia was fifteen then, and her governess, Miss Dawe, took the place, as far as could be, of her dead mother, chaperoning Felicity and teaching Sylvia. He remembered that it was bitterly cold and snowing hard. As he passed the schoolroom, of which the door was open, to his own room, escorted by the servant, he heard what sounded like a quarrel going on. A poor old man with a battered accordion was making a pathetic noise on the cold pavement.