"It's my fault. I kept Miss Vintry talking on the doorstep."
"I must go in now," said Isobel. "Good-night, Mr. Harry."
Vivien looked at them in some curiosity, but without any suspicion. A thought struck her. "I believe I caught you talking about me," she said with a laugh. "And not much good about me either—because you both look a little flustered."
Wellgood stepped out from behind his bush.
"I think I can tell you what they've been talking about, Vivien, and I will. I've had the pleasure of listening to the last part of it."
He stood there stern and threatening, struggling to keep within bounds the rage that nearly mastered him—the rage of the deceived lover trying still to masquerade as a father's indignation. The father should have sent his daughter away; the lover was minded at all costs to heap shame and humiliation on his favoured rival and on the woman who had deceived him.
"Not before Vivien!" Harry cried impulsively.
Vivien turned eyes of wonder on him for a moment, then the old look of remoteness settled on her face. She stood holding on to the door, for support perhaps, looking now at none of them, looking out into the night.
"This man, your lover, was making love to this woman, whom I employed to look after you." He laughed scornfully. "Oh yes, a rare fool I look! But don't they look fools too? They're nicely caught at last. I daresay they've had a good run, a lot of 'I love you's,' a lot of kisses like the one I saw to-night. But they're caught at last."
Vivien spoke in a low voice. "Is it true, Isobel?" For Harry she had neither words nor eyes.