She fumbled for the crook of the handle, and rose; her eyes were bright, and as blue as the sapphire Colin had worn last night.
“Yes, but I must talk to Colin again,” she said. “No one understands me except Colin. There used to be other games than whist, Philip, at Stanier. There was dice-throwing, you know, on the altar of God. We are not so wicked now to all appearance. Whist in the gallery; far more seemly.”
Raymond held the door open for her, and she hobbled through, Violet following. As she passed out, Violet looked first at Raymond, and then swiftly away, with a shudder, at Colin.
“Don’t be long, Uncle Philip,” she said in a low voice. “Grandmamma is so queer to-night.”
Colin moved up next his father.
“Give me a glass of port, father,” he said. “Here’s Raymond back, and I’m so glad to see him. Your health, Ray!”
He drank off his glass. “Father, isn’t it lovely to have Raymond back again?” he said. “But—this is an aside—he’s putting on flesh. May your shadow never grow more, Raymond. Tell us all about Cambridge; has it been delightful? I’m sure it has; for otherwise you wouldn’t look so prosperous. Speech! Mustn’t we have a speech from him, father?”
There, on one side of Philip, was Colin, brimming with good humour and welcome, brimming, too, as he had shewn during dinner with the mere nonsense born of happiness. On the other side was Raymond, serious and unresponsive, without a spark to answer this crackling fire. There he sat, and what sort of host would he have made during these last weeks? He made no attempt to reply to Colin, and but fingered the stem of his glass.
“You might tell us what has been going on, Raymond,” said his father.
“Nothing particular. Just the ordinary term. I’ve been playing for the University at soccer. I shall probably be in the team.”