A flush of miserable shame came to her. How they had all been trying to spare her—Eduardo, these kindly Marshalls—MacLean! She loved Tom just the same, just as fondly, perhaps more tenderly, even; for the limitations of his upbringing, his education, he was not to blame! It did not justify Gerty’s resentments—that was a personal feeling, a craving for distinction; hers, a wistful shame that Tom, not being equal to his opportunity, must drag it down with him, cancel forever that vision! It must not be a failure—it must succeed! She was turning, impulsively, to ask Tod Marshall if he thought, could he think it probable that they would fail, when a step that sent the blood to her face took the car’s stairs at two leaps. Now, indeed, the dinner was spoiled.
“That’s Rickard,” Marshall came back from Salt River. “I forgot to tell you that I asked him to dinner. He couldn’t get away. He said he’d run in for coffee. Hello, Rickard. Thought you’d forgotten us!”
“More coffee, Tony,” ordered Mrs. Marshall, after she had greeted her guest. “A cup for Mr. Rickard.”
She hadn’t thought of that contingency! She found herself shaking hands with him. Could he not hear her mind, ticking away at the Maldonado episode?
Of course, he would insist on seeing her to her tent. Punctilious, always. Well, she just wouldn’t. She didn’t know how to prevent it, but she just wouldn’t! Perhaps, she could slip out, some way. She would watch her chance. She would ask Mrs. Marshall—that was it, ask to be shown—anything. Then she would slip away. Mrs. Marshall’s needles were clicking. Her eyes were on her Tod’s face, watching for the first sign of fatigue. Tony carried in liqueurs. Rickard allowed his glass to be filled, but Innes noted that he did not touch it. She remembered that he had not refused it at her sister’s dinner. She was in a mood to carp.
“No spirits, either?” She thought she detected a mockery akin to hers in Marshall’s tone.
“Can I do what I won’t let my men do, sir?”
“Not smoking yet, I see!”
“I think I’ve learned to dislike it, for myself—” added Rickard. “Can I talk shop for a while?”
They withdrew to a cushioned window seat. Innes could hear bits of their talk. Rickard, she gathered, was urging a warm protest against a policy of his superior. She caught enough scraps to piece together their opposition. “Reclamation Service,” “Interference,” “A clean slate—” and then “We’re handicapped enough,” she heard Rickard say, and then caught a quick glance in her direction.