Edna's Cassandra-like prophecies of the danger threatening Mark Easter's peace of mind recurred to him, and he felt vaguely uneasy. The two beside him were talking with a complete ease that denoted at least a very secure sense of sympathy, although Julian's perceptions could detect no undercurrent of deeper emotion.
At Culmhayes, the light streaming from the open door revealed Miss Marchrose with a fresh, vivid colour that became her infinitely, and eyes full of gaiety and animation.
Julian ordered tea and was conscious of a perfectly distinct relief at the absence of Edna's habitual kind, pervasive welcome. He was aware that, had his wife been present, the tea-party would not have prolonged itself as it did over the fire in the library; still less would Iris's small piping soprano have largely monopolised the conversation with anecdotal gush relative to the inspiration, production, and reception of "Why, Ben!"
And yet Julian, in despite of his almost unlimited disesteem for the masterpiece in question, listened to its creator's artless self-advertisement altogether contentedly, idly watching, as he did so, the firelight play on the rather saturnine face of Mr. Douglas Garrett, punctuating with portentous movements of the head and assenting monosyllables the discourse of his prettily idiotic disciple in the realms of idealism. Watching also the almost motionless gaze which Mark Easter's blue eyes kept turned towards the shadow in which stood the great armchair, beside which he had drawn his own.
Miss Marchrose was leaning back, almost invisible in the flickering firelight that supplemented the distant electricity over the deserted tea equipage. Sir Julian could hardly see her, but from time to time he heard her speak, and thought again that her voice, with vibrations and intonations full of harmony, was sufficiently arresting to constitute a charm superior to that of physical beauty.
Iris, fluffy and brilliant both at once, actually failed to rouse in him that irritated scorn for her absurdity which almost invariably overpowered his pleasure in her extreme prettiness. Even her literary pretensions sounded less outrageous than usual in that assembly of which the peace and friendly well-being seemed to Julian's acute sensitiveness to be almost tangible entities. He did not seek to define to himself the most unwonted kindliness with which Iris Easter actually caused him to regard her when she suddenly spoke in praise of Miss Marchrose's singing, and said that she would like to hear her again.
"'Maxwelton's braes are bonny,'" Mark hummed under his breath.
"I'll sing it for you again, some day," said Miss Marchrose. And although she spoke quite lazily, without turning her head, in that moment Sir Julian realised that his latent compassion for the possible victim of a misplaced attraction was not destined to be called forth by his friend, by light-hearted, easy-going Mark Easter, but by Miss Marchrose, whom Fairfax Fuller had called "as hard as nails."
If was seven o'clock before they left Culmhayes.
"Mark, we shall be late for dinner," said his sister. "Not that it matters very much, since Douglas is coming to dinner, and he'll be just as late as we are. We're not dressing."