“Trust a woman—especially a woman like Rachel—for getting rid of anyone she wants to get rid of,” said Arthur. “And really my own opinion is that it would be an awful thing for her if she were to think seriously of that bounder.”
Gerard echoed the word inquiringly.
Arthur nodded.
“Men don’t like the fellow,” he explained. “He’s too noisy, too—too overbearing; too much side and too much swagger. It’s amazing to everybody that a well-bred woman like Miss Davison should put up with him for a moment. It’s the money, I suppose. Well, will you come?”
Gerard nodded silently. It was of no use to try to be wise where Rachel was concerned. He could only hope to escape being utterly foolish, and without much prospect of success.
Two minutes later he was waiting at the appointed spot, and in another two minutes Rachel herself, with Arthur Aldington, came up and met him there. Arthur disappeared with a few words from Rachel, who arranged that he should fetch her in ten minutes and take her back to the Van Santens, and then she and Gerard were once more alone together.
The change in her was so sudden, so great, that he could scarcely believe his eyes. Every trace of the brilliant manner, of the laughing face, the light, easy manner, the slight affectation, which had distinguished her tone and manner but half an hour ago, when she was with Denver and among the rest, had disappeared, and given place to a demeanor touching in its grave sadness.
“Mr. Buckland,” she began quite simply, as soon as Arthur was out of earshot, “you must think me a strange creature, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t know what to think of you,” he replied desperately. “You seem to be, not one or two, but half a dozen women; and they’re all charming, though some of them—might well break a man’s heart.”
“I don’t want to break yours, or any man’s,” she said simply.