“It is only bare suspicion, mind, and founded upon circumstantial evidence—acreage, I mean. I have become observant since my enforced detention, and while contemplating the populace—from a three-storey window—I have noticed that nobody else could show such an acreage of shoeleather.”
“Your imprisonment has rendered you satirical, Mr Orlebar,” said Mrs Daventer, in mild reproof, though at heart joining in the laugh wherewith the remark was received by her daughter, as, indeed, nineteen women out of twenty are sure to do whenever a man makes a joke at the expense of another member of their own sex.
Thus they sat, exchanging the airiest of gossip, laughing over mere nothings. Then the luncheon bell rang. Philip’s countenance fell. It was surprising how soon the morning had fled. He said as much—but dolefully.
“Why, what’s the matter?” said the elder lady, as she rose to go indoors.
“Oh, nothing. Only that I shall be left all alone again.”
“Poor thing!” said Laura, mischievously. “But perhaps, if you promise to be very entertaining, we’ll come and take care of you again. Shall we, mother?”
“Perhaps. And now, Mr Orlebar, is there anything you want? Anything I can tell them to do for you—or to bring you out?”
“You’re awfully good, Mrs Daventer. They know they’ve got to bring me something to pick at out here; but they may have forgotten. Yes, if you don’t mind just sending Alphonse here. And—I say—Mrs Daventer—you’ll—you’ll come around again presently yourselves—won’t you?”
“Perhaps—only perhaps!” answered Laura for her mother, with a mischievous, tantalising glance, which, however, said as plainly as possible, “Why, you old goose, you know we will.”
His face brightened. “Thanks awfully,” he mumbled. And then, as they left him, the sun did not seem to shine quite so brightly as before. However, he would not be left alone for long.