II
MRS. TREGASKIS shut the door behind them with astonishing briskness and whisked round to face her hostess.
“A little diplomatic ruse, my dear, to get those infants out of hearing. And once out of doors they’ll be tearing all over the place and forget our very existence. I really must talk to you about them—that eldest girl means trouble if I know anything of spoilt children. I foresee a scene this evening.”
“Why, Bertie dear? I thought them so very brave and good, poor little things.”
“Oh, you know what children are! They’ve practically ‘got over’ it as people say, already, but there’s bound to be an outburst, I’m afraid, at the ‘last evening’—you know the kind of thing. The men have been taking away the furniture, such of it as is going to be sold, this afternoon while we’ve been out, and I do rather dread taking them back to that half-dismantled cottage. Rosamund is very highly strung, poor child, and she always infects the little one.”
“Poor children,” sighed Lady Argent, while Ludovic was wishing that Mrs. Tregaskis had not taken up a position that rendered it impossible for him to walk out at the door.
“Poor me, too, I think. It’s very stupid to mind it, but these days have been a frightful strain, in a way—one has somehow felt for them so much more than they’ve probably felt for themselves. But what with mothering them, and seeing to the business part of it all, and packing up, I really feel a rag.”
She sank limply into an armchair and Ludovic made for the unguarded doorway as rapidly as he could.
“My poor dear! But why shouldn’t you all stay here for the night, and avoid going back to the cottage at all. Do do that, Bertie dear.”
“Sybil, you angel!” cried Mrs. Tregaskis, reviving abruptly. “What a lot it would save me—I’ve simply been dreading to-night. But wouldn’t it be a fearful nuisance?”