And the meal continued, and the chatter—although sobered by the turn which the talk had taken—was maintained. Edgar could not leave the others. Gaythorpe was his guest. He must play his part. This he did, with honest endeavour to preserve his good spirits and his composure. He followed the others into the drawing-room, and there drank coffee with them. For a moment it struck him that it was almost better to be with the whole party than with Gaythorpe alone. If Gaythorpe were in his study, then a process of inquiry might be applied; until Edgar could not be sure of his power to avoid such irritability as would be, to Gaythorpe's probing mind, more betraying than actual proclamation.
But either from tact or from imperceptiveness, Gaythorpe made no attempt, when at last they withdrew from the others, to introduce a personal note. His desire to see Edgar that night had been due entirely to business problems; and it was with these that the two men were engaged for a further hour. Only as he left, old Gaythorpe, in bidding farewell to Mrs. Mayne, dropped a hint unheard by Edgar. To Mrs. Mayne's invitation for another evening he made a significant reply.
"And I hope that the next time I come I shall have the pleasure of meeting Miss Patricia ... Patricia Quin. You have quite whetted my appetite to see the young lady."
He bowed, and his hand-pressure was a reassurance to Mrs. Mayne; who was much comforted by such confirmation of her belief in Patricia's innocence.
vii
At last Edgar was alone. He had bidden good-bye to Olivia, and had received her invitation to come at any time, on any day, to visit the babies. He had said good-night to his mother and father, had received a light touch of farewell from his sister; and he was in his room, by the fire, with a pipe; and a tray bearing a decanter, a syphon, and a glass, together with a slice of Mrs. Mayne's latest private cake, lay on a small table behind him. He was bending over the fire in the room's light glow, and the books were shining and the shelves gleaming in the shadow, when, with a slight rustle, Claudia appeared in a long silk dressing-gown, her hair plaited for the night.
"My dear," she hurriedly said. "I knew you'd feel a bit sick. You don't believe it's true, do you?" The remark was not a question. It was a statement.
Edgar turned, making no pretence of misunderstanding her.
"No," he said. "It's not true. And of course it's the venom of a miserable woman. But it doesn't make me very cheerful, because ... well, at any rate, they're friends."