She could hear him moving about in his dressing-room. Several times she was tempted to call him, but pride held her dumb, so convinced did she feel that he owed her amends for his conduct, that the first advances should come from him. But she waited in vain. George remained in his room; and Rafella, exhausted with tears and emotion, finally fell asleep.
When she awoke in the morning, later than usual, she was told that the sahib had gone forth at daybreak to shoot, and had left her a message to say that he should not return till the evening. Often when George had arranged to take a day's shooting, he slept in his dressing-room so that he should not disturb Rafella by rising at dawn, and it was rather a relief to feel that the present occasion would give rise to no comment among the servants. She remembered that to-night he was dining at mess, and she determined rancorously that she would not be in to receive him when he came home to dress.
Before she was out of her room a note and a book and a posy of violets came from Mr. Kennard. She replied to the note with a smile of bitter complacency curving her lips.
That evening Mrs. Greaves turned over the pages of a fashion paper in a corner of the club. It was previous to the days when "going to the club" had ceased to be a popular proceeding; it was not yet considered more civilised to go home with a few particular friends for the interval before dinner. The ladies' room was filled with groups of people refreshing themselves with tea after healthy exercise afoot or on horseback, or on the river, and the lofty building resounded with voices and laughter. The hot weather was within measurable distance, but the days were still pleasant, and the general exodus to the hills had not begun. The tennis courts in the public gardens were crowded every evening, the bandstand well surrounded, the Mall lively with riders and drivers; and the last ball of the season had yet to take place.
Mrs. Greaves had played four sets of tennis, and now she was waiting for her husband to join her from the polo ground.
Two women seated themselves at a tea-table just in front of her, and though she was absorbed in making up her mind whether to send home for one of the seductive blouses sketched on the advertisement page of the paper, she heard, unavoidably, scraps of their talk. First they discussed the ball that the bachelors of the station were giving next night in return for hospitality extended to them throughout the cold weather by the married members of the community. It was, they believed, to be an exceptionally brilliant affair; the supper was to include pomfrets from Bombay, and confections from Peliti's--the Buszard of India. From this they went on to the subject of their gowns for the ball.
Then one of them said: "Look! There's Mrs. Coventry, and, needless to say, Mr. Kennard."
The other looked up sharply; so did Mrs. Greaves, and this was the conversation that reached her unwilling ears.
"Did you ever see such a change in anyone? You weren't here when she came out as a bride? No, of course, I remember, you were at home. I assure you she looked like a Salvation Army lass, or a charity school girl, her hair dragged back in a knob like a door-handle, and hideous clothes. She would hardly speak to a man, and was horrified at everything and everybody. And now behold her, with a fringe, and dressed as well as anyone in the place, and, of all men, the irresistible Mr. Kennard in attendance. The boys' brigade appears to have been disbanded in his favour. He likes the field to himself."