Florence is resplendent in cream-color and blue, which doesn't suit her in the least, though it is a pretty gown, one of the prettiest in her wardrobe, and has been donned by her to-night for Guy's special delectation, finding a tête-à-tête upon the cards.
Chetwoode regards her with feverish anxiety as she enters the drawing-room, hoping to hear some mention made of the absent Lilian; but in this hope he is disappointed. She might never have been a guest at Chetwoode, so little notice does Miss Beauchamp take of her non-appearance.
She says something amiable about "Aunt Anne's" headache, suggests a new pill as an unfailing cure for "that sort of thing," and then eats her dinner placidly, quietly, and, with a careful kindness that not one of the dishes shall feel slighted by her preference for another, patronizes all alike, without missing any. It is indeed a matter for wonder and secret admiration how Miss Beauchamp can so slowly, and with such a total absence of any appearance of gluttony, get through so much in so short a space of time. She has evidently a perfect talent for concealing any amount of viands without seeming to do so, which, it must be admitted, is a great charm.
To-night I fear Guy scarcely sees the beauty of it! He is conscious of feeling disgust and a very passion of impatience. Does she not notice Lilian's absence? Will she never speak of it? A strange fear lest she should express ignorance of his ward's whereabouts ties his own tongue. But she, she does, she must know, and presently no doubt will tell him.
How much more of that cream is she going to eat? Surely when the servants go she will say something. Now she has nearly done: thank the stars the last bit has disappeared! She is going to lay down her spoon and acknowledge herself satisfied.
"I think, Guy, I will take a little more, very little, please. This new cook seems quite satisfactory," says Florence, in her slow, even, self-congratulatory way.
A naughty exclamation trembles on Sir Guy's lips; by a supreme effort he suppresses it, and gives her the smallest help of the desired cream that decency will permit. After which he motions silently though peremptorily to one of the men to remove all the dishes, lest by any chance his cousin should be tempted to try the cream a third time.
His own dinner has gone away literally untasted. A terrible misgiving is consuming him. Lilian's words are still ringing and surging in his brain,—"I shall never return." He recalls all her hastiness, her impulsive ways, her hot temper. What if, in a moment of pride and rage, she should have really gone with her cousin! If—it is impossible! ridiculously, utterly impossible! Yet his blood grows cold in spite of his would-be disbelief; a sickening shiver runs through his veins even while he tells himself he is a fool even to imagine such a thing. And yet, where is she?
"I suppose Lilian is at Mabel Steyne's," says Miss Beauchamp, calmly, having demolished the last bit on her plate with a deep sigh.
"Is she?" asks Guy, in a tone half stifled. As he speaks, he stoops as though to pick up an imaginary napkin.