Morris sat between Hazel and her mother, and was able to look at Rosamund on the opposite side of the table. She hardly once raised her eyes to his, but when she did so, he saw a light in them that brought an answering ardour to his own gaze.
He had hardly a glance to spare for Hazel Tregaskis, whose tawny hair seemed to radiate sparkles, even as her charming personality radiated vitality. Frances, beside her, looked pale and languid, with dark circles round her eyes, and as soon as luncheon was over Morris heard Mrs. Tregaskis say to her affectionately:
“You’d better go upstairs to the boudoir, Francie, and curl up on the sofa. I’ll come up in a minute and see if we can’t find something for the poor head.”
“Thank you, Cousin Bertie.”
Mrs. Tregaskis looked round, almost like a general arranging for the dispersal of a superfluous staff.
“Hazel, on with the hat again! I’m not going to have you dashing out in this sun with nothing on your head. I suppose you and Minnie want to go up to the moors? and you must take this lazy child with you.”
She laid a possessive hand upon Rosamund’s shoulder.
“Dear Mrs. Tregaskis, there’s that tiny wee little patch down by the pond that I meant to finish this afternoon,” breathed Miss Blandflower, evidently uncertain whether she was supposed to be pining for moorland air, or eager to finish her weeding.
“No, no, Minnie.” Mrs. Tregaskis’ tone left no further room for doubt upon the point. “You did far too much this morning. You know I’m always telling you not to choose the very hottest time of day for weeding. I dare say Morris and I will turn our energies to that patch by the pond, and surprise you when you get in. Now then, off with you!”
“But am I not to go to the moors too?” demanded Morris, half amused and half vexed, and wholly desirous of an afternoon in Rosamund’s company.