When George met Mamie on that evening, he hoped that she would ask no questions as to the way in which he had employed his afternoon, for he knew that if she discovered that he had been with Constance Fearing she would in all probability make some disagreeable observations about the latter, of a kind which he did not wish to hear. Without having defined the situation in his own mind, he felt that Mamie was jealous of Constance and would show it on every occasion. As a general rule she followed her mother’s advice and asked him no questions when he had been out alone. But this evening her curiosity was aroused by an almost imperceptible change in his manner. His face was a shade darker, his voice a shade more grave than usual. After dinner, Totty stayed in the drawing-room to write letters and left the two together upon the verandah. It was very dark and they sat near each other in low straw chairs.
“What have you been doing with yourself?” Mamie asked, almost as soon as they were alone.
“Something that will surprise you,” George answered. “I have been with Miss Fearing.”
He had no intention of concealing the fact, for he saw that such a course would be foolish in the extreme. He meant to go and see Constance again, as he had promised her, and he saw that it would be folly to give a clandestine appearance to their meetings.
“Oh!” exclaimed Mamie, “that accounts for it all!” He could not see her face distinctly, but her tone told him that she was smiling to herself.
“Accounts for what?” he asked.
“For a great many things. For your black looks and your gloomy view of the dinner, and your general unsociability.”
“I do not feel in the least gloomy or unsociable,” George said drily. “You have too much imagination.”
“Why did you go to see her?”
“I did not. I landed on their place without knowing it, and when I had been there a quarter of an hour, Miss Fearing suddenly appeared upon the scene. Is there anything else you would like to know?”