With a vague hope and dread commingled she sank to the seat again, and sat striving to still the wild beating of her heart.
Presently she heard her name called. It was Lady Bell’s voice, and how changed; there was no false ring in it now; clear and joyous it rang out:
“Una! Una! Where are you?”
There was no escape. She knew she must go, but she waited for full three minutes. Then, nerved to an unnatural calm, she rose and moved slowly forward. They were all seated again; she could see them.
Dalrymple and Sir Arkroyd were stretched at full length, smoking; the ladies, in their dainty sateens and pompadours, were grouped near them, and a little apart sat Lady Bell, a cup in one hand and a knife in the other, her face turned toward someone eating. Though his back was toward her, Una recognized him. It was Jack Newcombe. He had turned down his sleeves and put on his white flannel jacket, and was eating and chatting at one and the same time.
“Yes, better late than never,” she heard him say, and with every word of his deep, musical voice her heart leaped as if in glad response. “I found I could get away, and I jumped in the train, to learn at Richmond that you had just started. I got an outrigger, and here I am.”
“Just in time to help wash up,” said Dalrymple. “We’ve eaten all the strawberries, old man, and there isn’t much cream. It’s lucky for you there is any pie.”
“Don’t pay any attention to them, Mr. Newcombe,” said Lady Bell, and how soft and sweet her voice sounded, with its undertone of tenderness. “I am so sorry you are late. Do not let them hurry you. You must be so tired. Let me give you some ham—some tongue, then?”
And she herself cut a slice and put it on his plate.
“Don’t let me stop the fun,” said Jack, in his grave way. “Go on with your games. What was it—kiss-in-the-ring?”