Katherine, though not a keenly observant person, began to notice with concern his unwonted languor, his frequent absence of mind, his oblivion of details. These things were new in him. He had been always prompt, business-like, never needing a reminder as to engagements or work. She often had to remind him now.
Weeks had passed, and Mrs. Brutt awaited still the expected invitations to Lynnthorpe—which she looked upon as the price of her silence about Doris and Maurice. But they did not come. Two large parties had taken place, and she was left out. Now the Squire's birthday was at hand, always a fête-day in the place; and she had set her heart on being included in the big dinner-party of relatives and intimate friends.
No such thing! She had a formal card of invitation to the mixed afternoon gathering, to which everybody went,—an omnium gatherum, of which she had often heard, and at which she turned up her nose.
That was enough. If she was to be slighted in such a fashion, after all her trouble in carrying out the Squire's plans, he should be sorry for it! She would follow her own devices, and would hold her tongue no longer.
It occurred to her that to let slip the fact of Doris's love-affair to the mother of Mr. Hamilton Stirling would be the most effective method of revenging herself, not upon the Squire only, but upon Mrs. Stirling, whom she cordially disliked, and upon Mrs. Winton. She was quite aware that the latter wanted to secure Mr. Hamilton Stirling for her daughter, and she had gathered that the Squire did not desire him to know about Dick Maurice. If so, he should have taken a little more trouble about her. She was not going to be shunted on one side in this fashion. People might be offended with her for speaking out,—but what then? She could easily shift her quarters again. Lynnbrooke was a fearfully dull place, and she had had nearly enough of it.
Standing in an elegant attitude was well enough for ten minutes, but the ten grew into fifteen, the fifteen into twenty, and she became both tired and annoyed. Tea was brought in, and still the hostess remained absent. She wandered round the room, paying a perfunctory attention to the pictures.
One in a shady corner drew closer interest. Two heads, side by side, were lightly sketched in French chalks; both of them bearing an unmistakable resemblance to Mr. Stirling, though the one was more delicate in feature, more refined, more really beautiful than the other. Both were young.
"I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long," a voice said behind her. "How do you do? Will you have some tea?"
Mrs. Brutt turned to shake hands.
"I quite understand," she said, secretly wrathful at receiving so scant an apology. "You are always such a busy person. But we had not met for so long, I thought I might venture to say I would wait. I am rather struck with this pair of heads. So well sketched: such fine faces! Am I wrong in supposing that one of the two is Mr. Stirling?"