Jean was perplexed whether to look upon the mood as purely nervous, or whether to conjecture some possible reality in it. No doubt, real foretellings of trouble have been at times experienced; but, on the other hand, Evelyn had frankly confessed to such experiences on her own part as usually without result; and when genuine result does follow, one still has to allow for coincidence. Whatever else the mood implied, however, it meant suffering, and Jean was always tender to suffering.
"Jean, what o'clock?"
"Half past six. That is nothing. The wind would hinder anybody."
"You are so wise and logical."
"Isn't it best?"
"Perhaps—yes. But logic won't do away with this feeling, the dread of some evil ahead. When it comes it always terrifies me, even though it so often means nothing. I am not superstitious; but don't you think warnings are sometimes sent?"
"I am not sure that they may not be," said Jean slowly. "Only—they would be true; and you say that this feeling is often mistaken. But if you are so worried, why don't you send Walters to meet General Villiers? He might be glad of an arm, now the wind is strong."
"Oh, thanks—the very thing! You practical girl! Yes, please, ring."
She roused herself into something like animation when Walters appeared—a middle-aged slow-mannered man, of stout and heavy build. He listened attentively, looking from one to the other.
"Ricketts! Yes, ma'am! On the border of the wood. Which way, ma'am?"