‘It’s her bonnet!’ thinks Susan hurriedly; she had, indeed, been immensely struck by Mrs. Prior’s head-gear on her arrival. Such a tall aigrette, and such big wings at the sides! Again she makes little passes in the air, meant for Ella’s benefit, but again in vain. Turning with a view to enlisting Carew’s help, she finds herself close to Wyndham.
His face is livid. He is, indeed, consumed with anger. Good heavens, is the girl bent on his undoing? Is she determined wilfully to add to the already too risqué situation?
‘Carew might do something,’ whispers she to him softly. ‘He might run across and tell her she can be seen, or——’
She looks round for Carew, and Wyndham follows her lead, to see Carew behind an escallonia bush, waving his arms frantically in the air. There is intense anxiety in the boy’s air, but something else too. There is, as Wyndham can see, heartfelt admiration; and beyond all doubt the admiration outweighs the anxiety. He is conscious of a sensation of annoyance for a moment, then his thoughts come back to the more pressing need. He looks at Susan, and then expressively at Mrs. Prior, and Susan, in answer to his evident entreaty, goes quickly to her, and suggests softly a little stroll through the old orchard; but Mrs. Prior peremptorily puts her aside, and, taking a step forward, comes up to Wyndham, and looks straight at him in a questioning fashion, at which—as though by the removal of Mrs. Prior’s eyes from hers Ella all at once ceases to be under some strange spell—the charming head between the sycamore-trees disappears from view, and no more is seen of Mr. Jones’s Hamadryad.
‘“Though lost to sight, to memory dear!”’ breathes Captain Lennox sentimentally. ‘I feel I shall remember that goddess of the grove as long as I live.’
The tiny excitement is at an end for most of the guests, and they are now chatting gaily again of petty nothings, all except Mrs. Prior, who is still looking at Wyndham.
‘Who is that girl?’ asks she, in a low but firm tone. Wyndham would have spoken, but Carew breaks angrily into the conversation. His heart is sore, his boyish indignation at its height. Surely there had been disrespect in their tone as they spoke of Ella! He had specially objected to that word ‘Hamadryad.’
‘She is a young lady who has taken Mr. Wyndham’s cottage,’ says he, in his clear young voice, ‘and a friend of my sister’s.’
‘Oh, indeed!’ says Mrs. Prior. ‘I congratulate you, Paul’—turning a withering glance on him—‘on your taste in tenants!’
The evening lights are falling—falling softly, tenderly, but surely. The crows are sailing home to their beds in the elm-trees, cawing as they come. The tall hollyhocks are growing indistinct, the tenderer colours fading into white. There is a rising odour of damp, sweet earth upon the air. Lady Forster is making little signs of departure—not hurried signs, by any means; she seems, indeed, rather reluctant to say good-bye, but Mrs. Prior has said something to her, on which she has risen, the others following her example. There is no doubt about Mrs. Prior’s anxiety to go. With her face set like a flint, she is already bidding Miss Barry a stiff farewell, and is waiting with ill-concealed impatience for Lady Forster.