In pursuance of his general policy, Colin made the most persevering attempts at lunch to render himself agreeable to his brother, for the impression he wished to give was that he was all amiability and thereby throw into blackest shadow against his own sunlight, Raymond’s churlishness. A single glance at that glowering face was sufficient to convince Colin that he had amply overheard the words which had passed between his father and himself below the open window of the gallery, and that he writhed under these courtesies which were so clearly of the routine of “making the best of him.” All the rest of them would see how manfully Colin persevered, and this geniality was a goad to Raymond’s fury; he simply could not bring himself to answer with any appearance of good-fellowship.
“What have you been at all morning, Raymond?” Colin asked him as he entered. “I looked for you everywhere.”
“Been indoors,” said Raymond.
Colin just shook his head and gave a little sigh of despair, then began again, determined not to be beaten. He saw his father watching and listening, and Raymond knew that Lord Yardley was applauding Colin’s resolve to “make the best of him.”
“You ought to have come down to the tennis-court and taken on Vi and me together,” he said. “We shouldn’t have had a chance against you, but we’d have done our best. Father, you must come and look at Raymond the next time he plays; he’s become a tremendous crack.”
Raymond knew perfectly well that either Colin or Violet could beat him single-handed. Yet how answer this treacherous graciousness?
“Oh, don’t talk such rot, Colin!” he said.
He looked up angrily just in time to see Colin and his father exchange a glance.
“Well, what shall we do this afternoon?” said Colin, doggedly pleasant. “Shall we go and play golf? It would be awfully nice of you if you’d drive me down in your car.”
“You know perfectly well that I loathe golf,” said Raymond.