Hortense worked with nimble fingers, but her eyes at every opportunity were studying her mistress’ face. Was it the English rain which could soften and beautify like this? Madame was brilliant—and so young! Such a colour! Such a fire in the eyes! Madame laughed as she thrust her from the room.
“The wine, Hortense, and the biscuits—no sandwiches! I die of hunger. And send word to the library that I have been caught in the storm, and must change my clothes, but shall be down presently. So!”
She found them, an hour later, just finishing a rubber. Their languid post-mortem upon a curiously played hand was broken off upon her entrance. They made remarks about the storm and her ill-luck—had she been far from shelter? was she not terrified by the lightning? Lady Peggy remembered her gown. Deyes alone was silent. She felt him watching her all the time, taking cold note of her brilliant colour, the softer light in her eyes. She felt that he saw her as she was—a woman suddenly set free, even though for a few short hours. She had broken away from them all, and she gloried in it.
She played bridge later—brilliantly as usual, and with success. Then she leaned back in her chair and faced them all.
“Dear guests,” she murmured, “you remember the condition, the only condition upon which we bestowed our company upon one another in this benighted place. You remember it was agreed that when you were bored, you left without excuse or any foolish apologies. The same to apply to your hostess.”
“My dear Wilhelmina,” Lady Peggy exclaimed, “I know what you’re going to say, and I won’t go! I’m not due anywhere till the thirteenth. I won’t be stranded.”
Wilhelmina laughed.
“You foolish woman!” she exclaimed. “Who wants you to go? You shall be chatelaine—play hostess and fill the place if you like. Only you mustn’t have Leslie over more than twice a week.”
“You are going to desert us?” Deyes asked coolly.