“Less of it!” recommended the son of the house, walking over to a table which bore a phalanx of tumblers, and several kinds of liquid refreshment. “A brilliantly conceived shot, executed with true delicacy of touch. What'll you have, Delia? We can offer you lemonade, orangeade, beer, ginger-beer and Mother's Ruin. You have only to give it a name.”
Mrs. Lindale, having given it a name, sat down in a chair beside her hostess, her coat draped across her shoulders, and surreptitiously glanced at her wristwatch. She was a thin young woman, with pale hair, aquiline features, and ice-blue eyes that never seemed quite to settle on any object. She gave the impression of being strung up on wires, her mind always reaching forward to some care a little beyond present. Since her husband had abandoned a career on the Stock Exchange to attempt the precarious feat of farming, it was generally felt that she had every reason to look anxious. They had not been settled for very long at Rushyford Farm, which lay to the north of Thornden, on the Hawkshead road; and those who knew most about the hazards of farming in England wondered for how long they would remain. Both were energetic, but neither was accustomed to country life; and for Delia at least the difficulties were enhanced by the existence of a year-old infant, on whom she lavished what older and more prosaic parents felt to be an inordinate amount of care and adoration. Those who noticed her quick glance at her watch knew that she was wondering whether the woman who helped her in the house had remembered to carry out the minute instructions she had left for the care of the infant, or whether Rose-Veronica might not have been left to scream unheard in her pram. Her husband knew it too, and, catching her eye, smiled, at once comfortingly and teasingly. He was a handsome, dark man, some few years her senior. He had the ready laughter that often accompanies a quick temper, a pair of warm brown eyes, and a lower lip that supported the upper in a way that gave a good deal of resolution to his face. He and Delia were recognised as a devoted couple. His attitude towards her was protective; she, without seeming to be mentally dependent upon him, was so passionately absorbed in him that she could never give all her attention of anyone else if he were present.
Mrs. Haswell, who had seen her glance at her watch, gave her hand a pat, and said, smiling: “Now, I'm not going to have you worrying over your baby, my dear! Mrs. Murton will look after her perfectly well.”
Delia flushed, and gave an uncertain laugh. “I'm sorry! I didn't mean—I was only wondering.”
Abigail Dearham, a very pretty girl, with a mop of chestnut curls, and wide-open grey eyes, looked at her with the interest she accorded to everyone who came in her way. “Have you got a baby?” she asked.
“Yes, a little girl. But I really wasn't worrying about her. That is to say—”
“Do you look after her yourself? Is it an awful sweat?”
“Oh, no! Of course, it does tie one, but I love doing it.”
“You ought to get out more, dear,” said Mrs. Haswell.
“I expect it's fun, having a baby,” said Abby, giving the matter her serious consideration. “I shouldn't like to be tied down, though.”