Mrs. Maxwell lifted her chin. The line of her throat was still very pretty. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror over the mantel.
"Don't be absurd," she said. "Why shouldn't he?"
IV
"The Battlefield Hotel," Marshall Pendleton said, when the question of luncheon was brought up, "is a wonderful place, Benny; better take us there. Stopped there with the Willings last summer, and had eleven kinds of jam and about a hundred kinds of cake on the table at the same time. Great!"
"Heavens, Marshall!" Mrs. Maxwell exclaimed. "You know I can't eat sweets! I'd put on half a pound after such a meal as that!"
Pendleton grinned. "That was not all, Cecilia," he said. "I'd meant to keep it a secret, and surprise Benny with it. He's always out for gastronomic rarities. They give you cold cucumbers, cut thick, with warmish cream poured over them—real cream, lumpy, kind you used to have on grandfather's farm, and all that, you know! You feel green when you first see it. Then you wonder what it's like, but remember that your cousin somebody-or-other, the one you're not on speaking terms with, would inherit all you'd leave if you died. Then you begin to reason that other people must have dared and survived, and then you taste it and—consume! It's truly wonderful, Benny; better take us there!"
"Are you inviting us to a suicide pact, Marshall?" Flood asked.
The others laughed, and Flood and Mrs. Maxwell exchanged memories of queer dishes while Pendleton pointed out to the chauffeur the intricate way through the narrow streets. Only Rosamund was silent, leaning back in the cushioned corner, looking abstractedly at the quaint doorways and gardens they passed. During the preceding fortnight, with Oakleigh crowded with guests, it had been easy enough to avoid Flood's companionship, which was beginning to make her more and more uneasy, in spite of his earnest effort to keep it for the present on the level of the commonplace. But, now that they were alone there, a party of four, and with Cecilia and Marshall in one of their intervals of mutual absorption, there was nothing to do but submit to the situation. She had welcomed Flood's suggestion of the day before that they should motor up to Bluemont; with Eleanor at the Summit, and with the others in the motor car, Flood's company could be endured for the day. So they had left Oakleigh early, and in Flood's big shining car swung down through the mountains, out upon the plain, and into the quaint little town of Battlesburg. Rosamund's imagination peopled again the streets and fields with soldiers in blue and gray. She knew where her father had fought and lain wounded. As they passed swiftly between the innumerable monuments her heart throbbed. From the vast field of graves the spirit of the past arose and spoke to her—spoke of the men who had fought and died there, spoke of the greater man who had led and forgiven.
But during all the journey she had been intensely bored; more, she was deeply provoked, and in that state of mind where everything jars and trifles loom as mountains. Pendleton's silly chatter seemed unendurable; she resented his nonsense almost as if it were an insult thrown at the sacredness of the battlefield. She hated his story of the cucumbers and cream. When the landlord told them they would have half an hour to wait before luncheon, she walked to the farthest end of the veranda, and stood, looking down the little narrow street. Mrs. Maxwell threw herself into a large yellow rocking chair, and Flood leaned against the veranda railing, facing her. Pendleton was entering their names in the office, and wonderingly inspecting the landlord's showcase of battlefield relics. Flood lighted a cigarette, and as he blew out the smoke, turned towards the end of the veranda where Rosamund stood. Cecilia watched his face for a moment or two; then she said: