“Oh, well,” she said, with a little pout, and heaving up an attempt at a sob for the occasion; “of course, if you prefer to be with other people, when I have made Pa bring me all this way because I couldn’t bear to be away from you any longer, I—I—” And the heave became very much more pronounced.
“This is gaudy!” thought Philip to himself. “They have been pretty well giving me away for the benefit of the whole hotel already, and now she is going to scare up a scene pro bono publico. A scene, by Jove!” he reflected, in dismay. And then, at this additional indication of her want of breeding, he felt hardened. Fancy Alma, for instance, making such an exhibition of her feelings in public! and this idea brought with it a dire foreboding—what if he were to undergo some private but unmistakable indication of Alma’s feelings, as a sequel to this abominable contretemps!
Just then the dinner-bell rang.
“There goes the second bell, and I’m still in my nailed boots and climbing gear. We left at six this morning, you know, to go up to the Mountet Hut, and are only just back,” he added, with forced gaiety and unconcern. “I must really go and change. Sha’n’t be down till dinner is half over as it is.”
“Friends of yours, those new arrivals, aren’t they, Philip?” said the General, soon after the latter had taken his seat.
“They are some people I used to know down at Henley. They had a big riverside place there, and gave dances.”
“What a pretty girl!” said Mrs Wyatt, putting up her glasses to look over at the objects under discussion, who were seated at another table at the further end of the room. “Isn’t she, Mr Fordham?”
“I’m afraid I’m not a competent judge on that point,” was the reply.
“Mr Fordham won’t be betrayed into saying anything in favour of any of us,” said Alma, maliciously.