TO Florence everything—leaf, and wind, and the movement of her own blood—seemed to stop and harken to his steps going from her. To him the power and procession of incident were suddenly precipitated in a rending confusion, in which established custom was uprooted, faith cast down, self-confidence shaken to bits.
What went on around him had lost significance. He was among people, talking to people, looking at Florence across the table; but in this blind rage of suffering he was as indifferent to all external things as if he had been alone.
Neither Julia nor Bessie Lewis had appeared at luncheon. Julia had sent word that she would be late, to her mother’s absent-minded distraction. Mrs. Budd’s desire to rush away and fetch her fluttered before the faces of her guests like a flag of distress. In the end she was deflected by an imperative telephone that caught her just as her guests were rising. While they loitered between the dining-room and living-hall, chatting in groups, Julia, with Bessie Lewis at her heels, came down the stairs, habited, hatted, booted, drawing on her gloves, her riding-whip under her arm.
She was pale, but singularly vivid. Her dark eyes gleamed under her thick brows. Her red lips were tight and thin.
Florence, looking quickly at Longacre, hated the presence descending the stairs.
“Oh, I say, young madam,” Thair protested, amused; “it won’t do, you know. You’re going to break your neck.”
“You aren’t coming!” she laughed at him, though he was in his pinks. “But Mr. Holden is!”
“Here, here!” Holden protested, shaking his head, half serious. “Don’t misquote me!”
“But we’re all going!” she cried, with a look straight at Longacre. “There are the horses!” She was buoyant. “Are two women going to ride cross-country alone?” she mocked them.
“By gad!” murmured Holden in stark admiration for such daring.