“That’s the worst of it. She might manage, but unfortunately she has no tact whatever, and Arthur will require the most delicate handling from his wife. Lawrence, this gardener is absolutely no good.”
“I don’t see anything amiss.”
“Then look at that border.”
The two wrangled, and strolled away together. Claudia, after a momentary hesitation, a momentary locking of her small fingers, went back to the pretty cool room, and sat down on the window-seat. Through the trees came glints of bright colour, as soldiers passed up and down the road, and now and then a cheery note of bugle or pipes rose shrill above other sounds. Fenwick walked restlessly about the room.
“I suppose you’ll be at the polo this afternoon,” he remarked, stopping to straighten a picture, “as you’re so awfully keen on that sort of thing, aren’t you?”
“I suppose I am,” she said slowly. “But I am not going to the polo. It was about this afternoon that I wanted to say something.”
“All right. Here I am!” he said, flinging himself into a low chair by her side. But there was something ungracious in the movement, and his face darkened. He thought she intended to reproach him. Claudia spoke again, still slowly, for her voice was not altogether under control, and she dreaded above all things a breakdown.
“I am just sending a telegram to Elmslie—to my cousins—to ask them to expect me to-day.”
“Oh!” said Fenwick, sitting up. “And may I ask what has brought about this sudden change?”
His dry angry voice acted upon Claudia as a spur. Her eyes brightened as she faced him.