Darby, with the sadness deepening in his kind eyes, wondered what was the matter when she sat on the arm of his chair, and, with her hand in his, was palpably almost unaware of his presence in the world. He dropped the slight brown little hand and Gheena stroked Crabbit with it. She sat close to him, without a trace of self-consciousness. He was Darby, the friend who had helped her, and marriage was a thing they could talk of some day.
Psyche, sitting on the fender stool, had seen the dropped hand go absently to Crabbit's head, and her eyes darkened.
Violet Weston's coming to tea roused Gheena up, but she looked nervous instead of pleased.
"Gheena," said Darby, "has been submarine hunting and is feeling the effects of failure; she is depressed."
Mrs. Weston said lightly that she believed it was all nonsense. They might find out something—she nudged Gheena—but it would not be petrol bases on the coast.
"Despair and tight shoes," said Mrs. Weston, "stopped me looking; but, of course, I'll go with you again, Gheena dear."
"I'm not going to look any more," said Gheena heavily.
Violet Weston smiled as she admired her mauve suede shoes. She said that mysterious motor-cyclists passed through the village when all respectable motor-cyclists ought to be in bed, and wondered who they could be. She had heard them twice or three times, and had told Mr. Keefe about them.
Just then Mr. Keefe, trying to look as if his visit was accidental, blushed behind Naylour, and explained a lengthy drive and the tempting vicinity of Castle Freyne. When Mrs. Weston, who made room for him beside her on the sofa, continued to talk about the motor-bicycles, he grew pinker and looked embarrassed.
It seemed to Mr. Keefe that a great deal of nonsense was talked about bases and so forth.