‘Well,’ began Redshawe, ‘an Irrigation Company....’
His hostess smiled. At ease now, and reposing in the charm of her Irish voice and the kindliness of her speaking eyes, he smiled in return. As he looked into her lined face he felt that by holding himself very still he could almost hear the silken rustle of beauty’s vanishing skirts.
‘Tell me,’ Mrs. Fairfield said, leaning forward a little, ‘does my brother-in-law do any work, or do you and the rest do it all?’
He stared a moment at the dubious crease in his trousers. When he looked up, with a slight smile, ‘I’ve a tremendous respect for Mr. Bunnard,’ he assured her. ‘More than respect, if it’s not presumptuous to say so. But of course he’s a very big wig indeed, don’t you see? It’s only natural that he shouldn’t do very much.’
Mrs. Fairfield glowed maternally at the sight of his blushes.
‘How very nice you are,’ she surprised herself by saying, with the shadow of a tremor in her voice. ‘I’m so glad you came.’
He blushed again as he answered: ‘I’m most amazingly glad. I was terrified at first.’
Her smile was friendlier than ever.
‘Not of me, I’m sure. Of Mrs. Bunnard, perhaps. She is a very positive person—always has been.’
He wanted to blurt out: ‘No, it was your daughter that I was afraid of’; but he could not shake off the grip of his reticence.