She had risen and approached the window, with the view of intercepting Barbara's exit. But the baby was too quick. Hastily wriggling down the steps, in a manner peculiarly her own, she was seized upon on either hand by David and Sandy—apt at quick evasions, as well as in seeing cause for them—and was striding with huge strides across the lawn. Point lace and satin were of no account with the Bethune boys, any more than were bare toes and a hatless head. The girl-baby, all smiles to them, they found delightful, no matter in what she might happen to be cased.
His keen eyes took in all the details of the scene.
"That dress will be ruined," Mrs. Lytchett said tragically; and she proceeded with energy to convey her opinions as to the dressing of little children, as well as of their nurses. When she at last withdrew to pay a visit on the Green, Mr. Pelham closed the big gate behind her with a sigh of relief.
"I daresay she is right," he thought. "But what unpleasant 'right.' I will ask Mrs. Bethune."
He felt always irresistibly drawn by the dark beauty of Mrs. Bethune's eyes. No one could see the appeal in them without a pang. Even amidst her merriment, their wistful beauty somewhat belied it. Mr. Pelham found her helplessness and patience very pathetic. She looked so young to be a prisoner—so young, too, to be the mother of all those boys—whose noise was, however, curbed somewhat near her sofa.
When she had heard his errand, she said, "I thought you had come for your little girl. She came down half an hour ago with my boys, in a dress fit for a princess. I feared they had stolen her away. We have ventured to take it off, and put her into one of the boy's blouses. I really couldn't let her go and dig in such clothes. Yes," in response to his look, "they are all in the garden. Go and see if you like her in it, and then you shall have a pattern."
Mr. Pelham, on emerging through the window into the garden, saw that the "all" included also Mr. Warde. That gentleman had shown himself disinclined to follow the Bishop's lead in being civil to the newcomer. He had not yet called on him—though when they met they were friendly in discussing mutual tastes.
Mr. Warde was sitting with Marjorie under the beech tree on the lawn, and Mr. Pelham was struck by the look of intimacy, long-established, that the books and work scattered on the table seemed to prove between them. He could not know that Mr. Warde had joined Marjorie, after she had gone out to overlook the boys. He only saw that they were sitting together in the summer shade, talking in low voices—the man with a look on his face, and a possession in his attitude, which could not be mistaken—the girl with a wistful appeal shining in her dark eyes, which might well be a response.
A cold doubt fell on the beholder as he walked slowly towards them, and his keen eyes took in all the details of the scene. He had heard rumours—Charity had half-revealed the understanding between them—but his heart had refused belief.