"Too busy, my dear. Climbing takes a lot of time. And Mr. Ivor had a bad accident as they were coming down the mountain—fell into a crevasse, and might have been killed. That gave your brother more to do."
"I suppose so. But I do think he might have told me—if it was only half-a-dozen words."
"You shouldn't expect too much. Men hate writing letters on a holiday. By-the-by, thanks so much for those nice flowers, and for your note. So good of you! And now, I'm afraid, I really must say good-bye. But you will come again soon. I shall write and fix a day."
And that was all. Magda made her way out, mounted her bicycle, and set off for home; going slowly much of the way, and walking up the hills with a heavy step. She was puzzled by Rob's silence on what he must have known would be a great interest to her. She was conscious of a slight subtle change in Patricia—she did not use the word "subtle," but she felt it—which perplexed and weighed upon her. The manner was not less affectionate than usual; yet some new element seemed to have crept into their friendship.
Was it the Majors? Toiling up a long slope, she asked this question.
Anyhow, she would go at once to Virginia Villa, and would see how the land lay. No use putting off.
Thither she went direct, not calling at home by the way. She left her bicycle in the tiny front garden, and rang. A neat little maid opened the door and showed her into a drawing-room which took her by surprise. It was much larger than she had expected—yes, plainly, the front and back rooms had been thrown into one, making a room of good size, handsomely furnished. On an easel in the back window stood a half-finished painting; and work lay about carelessly. Magda recognised the tasteful fingers of her friend in the very sweep of the window-curtains, and in the mass of flowers piled upon a side-table. Bee was a born artist, and she carried with her an atmosphere of harmony.
Magda herself felt anything rather than harmonious this hour. She had never been more uncomfortable in her life.
The two ladies came in together; Bee, as always, gentle, slender, reticent, quietly affectionate, but rather holding back, as if not quite sure of Magda. The latter's constrained kiss was hardly of a nature to reassure.
There was no manner of constraint about Bee's mother. Of medium height, plain in feature, rather stout, wearing a short alpaca black skirt and a loose black jacket—she did in a fashion resemble the photograph with which Magda was familiar. Only, no photograph could reproduce the absolute ease and supreme composure of the original. In two points alone was she like her daughter—in the slender pretty hands, and the soft low-toned voice; but her speech was slower than Bee's, and she had the air of being much more sure of herself.