They joined the rest of the party, without uttering a word. "My dear Violet," exclaimed Mrs. Vyner, "how pale you look! Has anything happened? Are you ill?"
Cecil's temples throbbed fearfully. He expected to hear himself exposed before them all, and was trying to muster courage to endure either their scorn, or Violet's sarcastic irony in her description. She only said,—
"Oh, nothing; only a little fright. There was a bull in the meadow who took offence at Shot, and began to threaten us. It is very foolish to be so agitated; but I can't help it."
"Very natural, too, my dear," said Mrs. St. John. "Come and let me give you a glass of wine: that will restore you."
"No, thank you," she replied; "it's not worth making a fuss about. It will go off in a minute or two. Well, Mrs. Langley Turner, have you settled anything about the theatricals?"
"Settled nothing, my dear, but projected an immense deal. Let us lay our heads together a little."
Mrs. Langley Turner twined her arm round Violet's waist, and moved away with her.
Cecil was intent upon the structure of a dahlia.
Nothing more was said on the subject of the fright; and amidst his poignant sense of shame, there was a feeling of grateful reverence to Violet for having spared him. He knew her well enough to be certain that, as she had not revealed his conduct then, she would not whisper it in private. He knew her capable of crushing him in her scorn by some epigram, such as she had uttered in the meadow, but incapable of a spiteful innuendo, or sarcastic narration, in private.
Nevertheless, she knew it. How could he again face her? How could he dwell under the same roof with her? He would not. He would set off on the morrow. He would invent some pretext; anything, so that he had not to encounter the scorn of those haughty features.