“Isn’t it lovely in the shade,” Mrs. Chadwick continued, drawing them into it. “Adrienne darling, Aunt Monica after all. And we were afraid the heat might keep you away. I suppose the hill was very hot, Monica?” Adrienne was still, apparently, something of an invalid, for she did not rise to greet them. Neither did she speak as she held out her hand to each of them in turn, and while an enveloping smile dwelt fondly on Mrs. Averil, she made no attempt to smile at Oldmeadow.
He found himself observing her with a sort of wonder. All the flaws and deformities of her maternity had fallen from her and she had the appearance almost of beauty. Yet he had never so little liked her face. Her dimly patterned features made him think of a Chinese picture he had once seen where, on a moth-wing background, pale chrysanthemums, mauvy-pink, a disk of carved jade with cord and tassel and a narrow ivory box softly spotted with darkness, conveyed in their seeming triviality an impression almost sinister of impersonality and magic. There was as little feeling in her face. It was like a mask.
“Where’s Nancy?” Barney asked. He had got up and joined them, giving Oldmeadow’s hand, as they met, a curiously lifeless shake.
“She had letters to write,” said Mrs. Averil.
“Why, I thought we’d arranged she was to come up and walk round the farm after tea with me,” said Barney and as he spoke Oldmeadow noted that Adrienne turned her head slowly, somewhat as she had done on the ominous morning in March, and rested her eyes upon him.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Averil cheerfully. “She must have misunderstood. She had these letters to finish for the post.”
Barbara was reconnoitring at the tea-table. “Strawberries!” she announced. “Who said they’d be over? Oh, what a shame of Nancy not to come! Roger, why aren’t you staying here rather than with Aunt Monica, I’d like to know? Aren’t we grand enough for you since she’s had that bathroom put in!” Barbara had advanced to a lively flapperdom.
“You see, by this plan, I get the bath with her and get you when she brings me up,” Oldmeadow retorted.
“And leave Nancy behind! I call it a shame when we’re having the last strawberries—and you may have a bathroom with Aunt Monica, but her strawberries are over. Letters! Who ever heard of Nancy writing letters—except to you, Barney. She was always writing to you when you were living in London—before you married. And what screeds you used to send her—all about art!” said Barbara, and that her liveliness cast a spell of silence was apparent to everyone but herself.
Mrs. Chadwick took Oldmeadow’s arm and drew him aside. “You’ll be able to come later and be quite with us, won’t you, Roger?” she said “September is really a lovelier month, don’t you think? Adrienne is going to take Palgrave and Barbara for a motor-trip in September. Won’t it be lovely for them?” Mrs. Chadwick spoke with a swiftness that did not veil a sense of insecurity. “Barbara’s never seen the Alps. They are going to the Tyrol.”