Christopher had already put Mrs. Fazackerly into his two-seater, and Mrs. Harter and Captain Patch were nowhere to be seen.
I really felt sorry for Leeds, as I saw the blank expression with which he offered to drive Lady Annabel Bending home.
“What a bounder that fellow is!” young Martyn observed pleasantly as the car moved away.
“You’ve eaten his salt,” Claire said gravely. She looked very austere and high-minded as she said it, but that was probably for the benefit of Martyn—who seemed in no way impressed—and I saw every reason to fear that another volcano was claiming Claire’s inward attention. I knew she would say nothing in front of Sallie and Martyn, but as soon as we got home they dashed upstairs in search of some property connected with the play, and Claire and Mary and I remained together.
Then poor Claire’s features relaxed into an expression of desperation. These histrionic transformations in her are largely instinctive, I believe. She herself is never, for an instant, out of her own line of vision.
“It has come.”
It was useless to ask what had come. I knew and Mary knew.
“Has Christopher said anything to you?” I asked.
“No. Has he to you?”
Claire’s question came like a rapier point, and I was thankful to be able to say no in reply to it.