“What for?”
“For making it easy to me to do what’s right,” and Charlie turned on his heel and made rapidly for the nearest cafi, where he ordered an absinthe.
Dora went wearily up to her bedroom, and, sitting down, reviewed the recent conversation. She could not make out how, or why, or where they had begun to quarrel. Yet they had certainly not only begun but made very fair progress, considering the time at their disposal. It had all been Charlie’s fault. He must be fond of that girl after all; if so, it was not likely that she would let him see that she minded. Let him go to Mary Travers, if—if he liked that sort of prim creature. She, Dora Bellairs, would not interfere. She would have no difficulty in finding someone who did care for her. Poor John! How happy he looked when he saw her! It was quite touching.
He really looked almost—almost. To her sudden annoyance and alarm she found herself finishing the sentence thus, “almost as Charlie did at Avignon.”
“Oh, he’s worth a thousand of Charlie,” she exclaimed, impatiently.
At half-past four Sir Roger Deane was waiting; in the hall. Presently Dora appeared.
“Where are the others?” she asked.
“Charlie’s having a drink. Your father and Maud aren’t coming. They’re going to rest.”
“Oh, well, we might start.”
“Excuse me, Miss Dora, there’s some powder on your nose.”