He knew, though he had to struggle not to laugh, that he was very angry and that he must not show anger; though it would really be better to show that than his intense amusement; and it took him a moment, during which they confronted each other, to find words; dry, donnish words; words of caution and convention. They were the only ones he had available for the situation. “My dear young lady,” he said, “you take too much upon yourself.”
She was not in the least disconcerted. She met his eyes steadily. “You mean that I am presumptuous, Mr. Oldmeadow?”
“You take too much upon yourself,” he repeated. “As you say, I hope we may be friends.”
“Is that really all, Mr. Oldmeadow?” she said, looking at him with such a depth of thoughtfulness that he could not for the life of him make out whether she found him odious or merely pitiful.
“Yes; that’s really all,” he returned.
The dining-room was very bright and the little blue figure before the fire was very still. The moment fixed itself deep in his consciousness with that impression of stillness and brightness. It was an uncomfortable impression. Her little face, uplifted to his, absurd, yet not uncharming, was, in its still force, almost ominous.
“I’m sorry,” was all she said, and she turned and went forward to greet Mrs. Chadwick.
CHAPTER XI
IT was a soft June day and Oldmeadow was strolling about Mrs. Averil’s garden admiring her herbaceous borders. It was a day that smelt of ripening strawberries, of warm grass and roses, and the air was full of a medley of bird voices, thrushes and blackbirds, sweet as grass and strawberries, and the bubbling rattle of the chaffinch as happy as the sunlight.
Adrienne Toner was Mrs. Chadwick now, and she and Eleanor Chadwick and Barney were motoring together in the French Alps. Coldbrooks was empty, and he had come to stay with Nancy and her mother.