CHAPTER XXX
ON a beautiful October afternoon a visitor came to Enthorpe.
Camelia was summoned to find Mrs. Fox-Darriel in the drawing-room. Mrs. Fox-Darriel, with a pastoral hat—rather Gallic in its conscious innocence—tipped over her emphasized eyes, her gown of muslin and lace very fluffy on very rigid foundations, looked with her triumphant artificiality of outline quite oppressively smart. Camelia, after her year’s seclusion, felt her to be oppressive.
It was rather difficult to smile on meeting her, their parting had such painful associations—the dark turmoil of those days drifted over Camelia’s memory as she gave her friend her hand.
“You are surprised to see me, aren’t you, Camelia?” said Mrs. Fox-Darriel.
“Yes. Rather surprised.”
“No wonder, you faithless young woman. You haven’t troubled to toss me a thought for this twelvemonth. Well, I bear you no grudge; it is a psychological phase that will, I hope, wear itself away. Yes, I am stopping down in these parts again, twenty miles away, with the Lambournes. You have not seen them yet, I hear. New importations. Mr. Lambourne is a bloated capitalist, and as my poor Charlie is Labor personified, I hope that my display of four new gowns daily in the Lambourne ancestral halls—they will be ancestral some day—will result in a beneficial return of favors. Charlie is going in very much for companies; Mr. Lambourne’s companies are extremely advantageous. Oh, I uphold the uses of Lambournes in our modern world; they make us poor penniless aristocrats so very comfortable; they are good, grateful people.”
Mrs. Fox-Darriel, while she talked, was looking Camelia up and down in a slowly cogitating manner.
“No, I can’t stop to tea; I must be going back directly, it is a long drive. I only came to have a look at you, and, if possible, to solve the mystery. What’s up, Camelia? That is what I want to know. Is this all the result of last year’s little esclandre?”
Camelia evaded the question.