The sun had scattered the last remnants of fog, and, on Semingham's proposal, the party passed from the table to a seat in the hotel garden, whence they could look at the sea. Here they became rather more silent; for Adela began to feel that the hour of explanation was approaching, and grew surer and surer that to her would be left the task. She believed that Tom was tactful enough to spare her most of it, but something she must say—and to say anything was terribly difficult. Lord Semingham was treating the visit as though there were nothing behind; and his wife had no inkling that there was anything behind. The wife's genius for not observing was matched by the husband's wonderful power of ignoring; and if Adela had allowed herself to translate into words the exasperated promptings of her quick temper, she would have declared a desire to box the ears of both of them. It would have been vulgar, but entirely satisfactory.
At last Tom, with carefully-prepared nonchalance, asked,
"Oh, and how is Mrs. Dennison?"
Bessie Semingham assumed the question to herself.
"She's very well, thank you, Mr. Loring. Dieppe has done her a world of good."
Adela pursed her lips together. Semingham, catching her eye, smothered a nascent smile. Tom frowned slightly, and, leaning forward, clasped his hands between his knees. He was guilty of wishing that Bessie Semingham had more pressing avocations that morning.
"You see," she chirruped, "Marjory's with her, and the children dote on Marjory, and she's got Mr. Ruston and Walter to wait on her—you know Maggie always likes somebody in her train. Well, Alfred, why shouldn't I say that? I like to have someone myself."
"I didn't speak," protested Semingham.
"No, but you looked funny. I always say about Maggie, Mr. Loring, that——"
All three were listening in some embarrassment; out of the mouths of babes come sometimes alarming things.