No doubt Ethel’s description of her caused me to look out for something of the sort, but I could not help thinking that her rather pronounced physical attractions were deliberately assisted in their deadly work by all those little wiles that a girl who sets herself out to captivate knows so readily how to use. A coquette and a minx?—no, certainly. A little immodest then?—no, certainly not, again, but somehow in a way that I can not account for, her very modesty itself seemed suggestive of everything that modesty ignores. But in spite of the fact that I saw through her, and was just a little annoyed with myself for feeling her attraction, none the less, we got on very amicably, and I was quite satisfied to have missed the beautiful Miss Palfreeman, who had yet to arrive from London.
She arrived at lunch-time, Ethel and Ralph going to meet her while Margaret and Kenneth and I reserved a table in the refreshment tent and started our meal. Ethel had not exaggerated her beauty. Tall and slim, her coppery brown hair, which later I was to learn was of the “kinky” variety, almost concealed by a little hat that matched it exactly, it was the light in her amber eyes and her complexion that added more than anything else to her general loveliness. More than one head turned in her direction.
The tent was almost unbearable, but we were a gay little party; the liquid butter, the peculiar physiognomy of one of the waitresses, the hat of one of the competitors, and such like trivialities were each in turn the excuse for jest and laughter.
The Tundish joined us in the middle of one of our bursts of merriment, and had made the remark that it was obviously time that a steadying element was added to the party before we knew that he was there. I happened to be looking at Stella when he first began to speak in his distinctive tone of voice, and to my surprise I saw her suddenly and unmistakably turn pale and the glass she was lifting to her lips slip from her fingers to the ground. She stooped to pick it up and recovered her composure so quickly that I imagine none of the others noticed it. They were introduced, and I half fancied that she hesitated for the fraction of a second before holding out her hand, but I could see no disturbance on the doctor’s placid face and the greeting he gave her was suavity itself. I did notice, however, that although I made room for him between Stella and myself, he squeezed himself in between Margaret and Kenneth, where the arrangement of the table dishes made it a much less convenient position.
Ralph was obviously impressed with Stella, and I was not a little amused to see how readily and openly he showed it. I gathered that Margaret’s thoughts were running in the same direction, for I saw her glance at Stella and a little smile—a mixture of amusement and appreciation—flicker across her rather full wide mouth. It was unkind of me, perhaps, but I could not help imagining that there was self-satisfaction in her smile as well, and that it might be the result of some such thought as: “Yes, very beautiful indeed—there’s at least fifteen between us, but where men are concerned——!”
Cigarettes were alight and we were on the point of leaving the table, when Ethel with characteristic suddenness decided she would like another ice.
“No, please don’t—I think not—I’m sure you’d be better without it,” The Tundish warned her.
“Ethel goin’ ’ave another ice,” she laughed emphatically, I imagine mimicking some childhood saying.
“Ethel’s doctor says she mustn’t.”
Kenneth sprang to his feet saying: “Why, of course, she can. It’s just the weather for ices,” and he went over to the buffet and fetched her the pinkest and largest he could procure. She waded through it quizzing The Tundish with every spoonful she ate, and Kenneth seemed aggressively and absurdly pleased that he had persuaded her to ignore the doctor’s wishes. But in some subtle way, The Tundish, sitting with impassive face and twinkling eyes, seemed to turn his rebuff into a moral victory, and while he appeared satisfied and pleasant, they had the air of being a little ashamed of what they had done.