“He wasn’t engaged to a Marchmont,” said Mrs Leslie, arranging her flowers. “That makes all the difference.”
“Why?” asked Claudia. As no one answered her question she turned again to Fenwick, “Won’t you let me come, this once, this first time? You really may want help.”
“I should say he had better look after himself—this time,” said Mrs Leslie pointedly, and Claudia crimsoned.
“I’m all right,” said Fenwick, stretching himself again. “Look here, Claudia, go to the polo, like a good girl, and—if I can, I’ll drop in there later.”
She said no more, and though she had a sense of defeat, it did not prevent her from becoming absorbingly interested in the rush and energy of the polo match. The day was both bright and showery; every now and then a sudden storm sent the carriages under the trees, then the sun broke out again, and no one was much the worse. As the afternoon wore on, her attention began to flag, for she expected Fenwick. He came late.
“How have you managed?” she asked eagerly.
“Well enough. I didn’t go far.” More hesitatingly he added, “I turned in at the Thorntons’.”
“Then,” remarked his sister, “you heard whether the report about Helen Arbuthnot is true?”
“I heard nothing.”
“I wonder she did not tell you.”