CHAPTER XII
Yvonne stopped in the doorway. Ranjab was holding the curtains aside for her to enter. The tall figure of Frederic loomed up behind her, his dark face glowing in the warm light that came from the room. She had changed her dress for an exquisite orchid-coloured tea-gown of chiffon under the rarest and most delicate of lace. For an instant her gaze rested on Lydia, and then went questioningly to Brood's face. The girl's confusion had not escaped her notice. Her husband's manner was but little less convicting. Her eyes narrowed.
“Ranjab said you were expecting us,” she said slowly, with marked emphasis on the participle. She came forward haltingly, as if in doubt as to her welcome. “Are we interrupting?”
“Of course not,” said Brood, a flush of annoyance on his cheek. “Lydia is tired. I sent Ranjab down to ask Frederic to——”
Frederic interrupted, a trifle too eagerly. “I'll walk around with you, Lydia. It's raining, however. Shall I get the car out, father?”
“No, no!” cried Lydia, painfully conscious of the rather awkward situation. “And please don't bother, Freddy. I can go home alone. It's only a step.” She moved toward the door, eager to be away.
“I'll go with you,” said Frederic decisively. He stood between her and the door, an embarrassed smile on his lips. “I've got something to say to you, Lydia,” he went on, lowering his voice.
“James dear,” said Mrs Brood, shaking her finger at her husband, and with an exasperating smile on her lips, “you are working the poor girl too hard. See how late it is! And how nervous she is. Why, you are trembling, Lydia! For shame, James.”
“I am a little tired,” stammered Lydia. “We are working so hard, you know, in order to finish the———”
Brood interrupted, his tone sharp and incisive.