“How d’you do, Mrs Fenham?” said Bayfield, greeting the new arrival cordially. He was followed by Lyn, somewhat less cordial. Then arose Earle’s voice:
“Mrs Fenham—Mr—There now, I believe I didn’t quite catch your name—”
“Blachland.”
“Ah, yes, I beg your pardon—Blachland. Mr Blachland.”
Hilary bowed—then obliged by that other’s outstretched hand to put forth his, found it enclosed in a tolerably firm clasp, by that of—Hermia.
Thus they stood, looking into each other’s eyes, and in that brief glance, for all his habitual self-control, he would have been more than human had he succeeded in concealing the unbounded surprise—largely mingled with dismay—which flashed across his face. She for her part, if she had failed to read it, and in that fraction of a minute to resolve to turn it to account—well, she would not have been Hermia Saint Clair.
To both the surprise was equal and complete. They had no more idea of each other’s propinquity than they had—say, of the Sultan of Turkey suddenly arriving to take part in the day’s sport. Yet, of the two, the woman was the more self-controlled.
“Are you fond of sport?” she murmured sweetly, striving not to render too palpable to other observers the dart of mingled warning and defiance which she flashed at him.
“Yes, as a rule,” he answered indifferently, taking his cue. “Been rather off colour of late. Touch of fever.”
There was a touch of irony in the tone, to the only one there who had the key to its burden. For the words brought back the long and helpless bout of the dread malady, when this woman had left him alone—to die, but for the chance arrival of a staunch comrade.