"He would not. It is not his way."
"If there were an engagement, why should not Cyril speak out?"
Evelyn put this question doubtfully, and was again silent. Jean longed to know more, but could not bring herself to ask. Cyril had never so much as mentioned to her the name of Lilias Mackenzie; nor had her father. The latter had meant little; for Mr. Trevelyan was not good at items of news. Did Lilias Mackenzie live in Melbourne? Had Cyril and Lilias met constantly, through the months of Mr. Trevelyan's long illness and convalescence? Was that why Mr. Trevelyan and Cyril had returned to Melbourne for some weeks, after their trip to the South Sea Islands before turning homeward? How natural and simple the whole seemed! Jean kept strict watch over her face while thinking such thoughts—successful watch, she believed, till she looked up, to meet a wistful and compassionate gaze. Evelyn's hand came on hers with a soft pressure. This would not do. Nobody might suspect. Nobody should blame Cyril. Jean braced herself for action immediately.
"If there were an engagement, I don't see why he should not stay out to marry Miss Mackenzie," she said, with cheerful composure. "So I told Miss Atherstone. It would be absurd to come home, and then to go out again. And that long voyage round the Cape—Oh, he would never do it! Much more likely that he should stay behind; and if my father were travelling alone, he would perhaps come by Suez after all. If they had not taken their passage, that is to say . . . Miss Atherstone says the girl is little and pretty, with dark eyes. Cyril admires dark eyes."
"Does he? I don't remember. Well—we shall see. People often do unexpected things."
Evelyn was no whit deceived by Jean's cheerfulness, but she at once fell in with the assumed mood.
Then Jem was announced, and a slight flush came to Evelyn's cheeks, as she welcomed him with her usual gentle grace. Jem had a strange look, Jean thought; and Evelyn saw the same. He was pale, with an unusual pallor, as if some shock had driven all the blood inward; and his eyes had an absorbed expression.
Jean wondered whether he observed Evelyn's rare flush and brightness. A gleam of the old beauty came back, together with a new delicacy; but she hardly thought Jem was awake to either. His mind seemed to be elsewhere—an unusual event with one whose interest was always so keenly present. For once, he appeared to have nothing to say.
"Jean told me that you would walk home with her," Evelyn remarked: one or two observations having won no response. "Too late to offer you tea, I'm afraid . . . How is Mrs. Trevelyan to-day? She will not like this east wind . . . No letters yet from abroad! Curious, is it not?"
A nameless change, crossing Jem's face, arrested Evelyn's attention—a wave of some strong feeling, quickly checked. She talked on other topics for three or four minutes, then reverted to the non-arrival of letters; and again the same look was manifest.