Major Ames was writing a note when she entered, and only turned round in his chair, not getting up.
“Glad to see you home, my dear,” he said. “Excuse me one moment. I must just direct this.”
She kissed him and waited while he scrawled an address. Then he got up and rang the bell.
“Just in time to catch the post,” he said. “By Jove! Amy, you’ve put on the famous pink gown. I would have dressed if I had known. You’re tired with your journey, I expect. It was a very hot day here, until a couple of hours ago.”
He gave the note to the servant.
“And dinner’s ready, I think,” he said.
They sat down opposite each other at ends of the rather long table. There were no flowers on it, for it had not occurred to him to get the garden to welcome her home-coming, and the whole of her resplendency was visible to him. He began eating his soup vigorously.
“Capital plan in summer to have dinner at half-past eight,” he said. “Gives one most of the daylight and not so long an evening afterwards. Excellent pea-soup, this. Fresh peas from my garden. The Evans’ dine at eight-thirty. And how have you been, Amy?”
Some indefinable chill of misgiving, against which she struggled, had laid cold fingers on her. Things were not going any longer as she had planned them. He had noticed her gown, but he had noticed nothing else. But then he had scarcely looked up since they had come into the dining-room. But now he finished his soup, and she challenged his attention.
“I have been very well indeed,” she said. “Don’t I look it?”