"Certainly not," returning the other's somewhat fiery glance calmly. "I do not believe he would be in the neighborhood without coming to see my mother."
At the last word, so dear to her, Lady Chetwoode wakes gently, opens her still beautiful eyes, and smiles benignly on all around, as though defying them to say she has slumbered for half a second.
"Yes, my dear Guy, I quite agree with you," she says, affably, apropos of nothing unless it be a dream, and then, being fully roused, suggests going to bed. Whereupon Florence says, with gentle thoughtfulness, "Indeed yes. If Guy is to be up early in the morning he ought to go to bed now," and, rising as her aunt rises, makes a general move.
When the women have disappeared and resigned themselves to the tender mercies of their maids, and the men have sought that best beloved of all apartments, the Tabagie, a sudden resolution to say something that lies heavy on his mind takes possession of Guy. Of all things on earth he hates most a "scene," but some power within him compels him to speak just now. The intense love he bears his only brother, his fear lest harm should befall him, urges him on, sorely against his will, to give some faint utterance to all that is puzzling and distressing him.
Taffy, seduced by the sweetness of the night, has stepped out into the garden, where he is enjoying his weed alone. Within, the lamp is almost quenched by the great pale rays of the moon that rush through the open window. Without, the whole world is steeped in one white, glorious splendor.
The stars on high are twinkling, burning, like distant lamps. Anon, one darts madly across the dark blue amphitheatre overhead, and is lost in space, while the others laugh on, unheeding its swift destruction. The flowers are sleeping, emitting in their dreams faint, delicate perfumed sighs; the cattle have ceased to low in the far fields: there is no sound through all the busy land save the sweet soughing of the wind and the light tread of Musgrave's footsteps up and down outside.
"Cyril," says Guy, removing the meerschaum from between his lips, and regarding its elaborate silver bands with some nervousness, "I wish you would not go to The Cottage so often as you do."
"No? And why not, très cher?" asks Cyril, calmly, knowing well what is coming.
"For one thing, we do not know who this Mrs. Arlington is, or anything of her. That in itself is a drawback. I am sorry I ever agreed to Trant's proposal, but it is too late for regret in that quarter. Do not double my regret by making me feel I have done you harm."