‘How delightful!’ says Lady Muriel.
‘Your house is quite close to the Cottage, is it not, Miss Barry?’ asks Mrs. Prior. ‘My nephew’s place, you know’—nodding at Wyndham, who changes colour perceptibly. Good heavens! what is going to happen next?
‘Yes,’ says Susan; ‘only the road divides us.’
‘Then you can tell us about Mr. Wyndham’s new tenant. You’—smiling archly—‘are quite an old friend of my nephew’s, eh?’ It is quite safe to make a jest of the friendship with this insignificant little country girl, as, of course, Paul, or any other man of consequence, would not waste a thought over her.
‘Almost, indeed,’ says Susan. ‘But as to the tenant—’
Crosby drops a spoon, and Susan, a little startled, turns her head. It is not on him, however, her eyes rest, but on Wyndham, who is looking at her with a strange expression. Is it imploring, despairing, or what? It checks her, at all events.
‘I know very little,’ she murmurs faintly.
‘Been flirting with him,’ thinks Mrs. Prior promptly. ‘All country girls are so vulgar. Any new man.... And I dare say this tenant of Paul’s is by no means a nice man either.’
There might have been a slight awkwardness here, but providentially Lady Forster, who is never silent for two minutes together, breaks into the gap.
‘What’s this, George?’ asks she, peering into a dish before her. ‘Are you prepared to guarantee it? It’s your cook, you know, not mine. Looks dangerous, and therefore tempting; and any way, one can only die once. Oh! is that you?’—to a late man who has strolled in. ‘Been losing yourself as usual? Come over here and sit beside me, you innocent lamb’—patting the empty chair near her—‘and I’ll look after you. I’ll give you one of these’—pointing to the dish—‘I hate to die alone. What on earth are they?’—glancing at the little brown curled-up things that seem filled with burnt crumbs. ‘Will they go off, George? Bombs, eh?’