“The Lord knows,” said Roland. “But in the meantime we shall have sold many gallons of varnish, and perhaps we shall have become indispensable to the old fellow.”
They made no mention during their walk of Beatrice. For some unexplained reason Roland had felt shy of asking Muriel whether she was to be one of the party. He had been content to wait and, on their return, he experienced, as he pushed open the drawing-room door, a sudden surprising anxiety. Would Beatrice be there? He assumed composure, but he could not prevent his eyes traveling quickly round the room in search of her. When he saw that she was not there he felt a sudden emptiness, a genuine disappointment. She would not be coming, then. And now that she was not there half his excitement, his enthusiasm, was gone. He sat beside Mrs. Marston and discussed, without interest, the costliness of Brussels lace, and wondered how soon he could conveniently go and change for dinner. The minutes dragged by.
And then at last, in that half hour when the room was slowly emptying, the door opened and he saw Beatrice, her slim figure silhouetted against the dull red wall paper of the hall. His heart almost stopped beating. Would she notice him, he wondered. Had she forgotten their lunch together? Had the growing intimacy between them been dispelled by a four months’ absence? He watched her walk slowly into the room, her hair, as ever, disordered about her neck and temples, and on her features that look of difference, of being apart, of belonging to another world, that appearance of complete detachment. Then suddenly she saw Roland, and smiled and walked quickly forward, her hand stretched out to him.
“I’ve been hearing so much about you,” she said. “They tell me you’ve been doing wonderful things. Come and sit with me over here and tell me all about it.”
And once again the love of vanity prompted him to confess his secret.
“But you won’t tell anyone, will you?” he implored.
She smiled. “If I can keep my own secrets, surely I can keep yours,” she said. Then, after a pause, “And they tell me Gerald won his bet.”
He blushed hotly. “Yes.”
“I knew he would,” she said, and she leaned forward, as she had at the restaurant, her hands pillowing her chin, her eyes fixed on his.
Roland laughed nervously. “But I don’t see why,” he began.