“Well,” he declared, “it was a hare-brained scheme. Theoretically, I believe you were right. There’s nothing more dangerous than content. Sort of armour you can’t get through.... Come, we mustn’t miss the ballet.”
They threaded their way down the room. Suddenly Macheson stopped short. He was passing a table set back in a recess, and occupied by two persons. The girl, who wore a hat and veil, and whose simple country clothes were conspicuous, was staring at him with something like fear in her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed; her lips parted, she was leaning forward as though to call her companion’s attention to Macheson’s approach. Macheson glanced towards him with a sudden impulse of indignant apprehension. It was Stephen Hurd, in irreproachable evening clothes save only for his black tie, and his companion was Letty.
Macheson stopped before the table. He scarcely knew what to say or how to say it, but he was determined not to be intimidated by Hurd’s curt nod.
“So you are up in town, Letty,” he said gravely. “Is your mother with you?”
The girl giggled hysterically.
“Oh, no!” she declared. “Mother can’t bear travelling. A lot of us came up this morning at six o’clock on a day excursion, six shillings each.”
“And what time does the train go back?” Macheson asked quickly.
“At twelve o’clock,” the girl answered, “or as soon afterwards as they can get it off. It was terribly full coming up.”
Macheson was to some extent relieved. At any rate there was nothing further that he could do. He bent over the girl kindly.
“I hope you have had a nice day,” he said, “and won’t be too tired when you get home. These excursions are rather hard work. Remember me to your mother.”