‘We have met already,’ fell like a benediction from the lips of Rosemary, as she gave him her hand.
‘Now let us take our things off,’ said Mrs. Bunnard with ferocious good humour. ‘Come, Rosemary!’
A moment later Redshawe was conscious of having stared at the departing vision. The exodus completed by Mr. Bunnard, he turned to find the thoughtful eyes of Rosemary’s mother upon him. Divining that she had read some of his mind he became confused.
Mrs. Fairfield rose to ring the bell: an action so startling to the disordered nerves of Redshawe that he breathed deep relief when, a moment later, he heard her ask Hassan to make some fresh tea for the ladies. His hostess came back into the bay of the room and stared out at the clustering purple masses of bougainvillea that hung from the white house, her hands playing listlessly with a fly-whisk.
‘This is the coolest part of the house till the sun goes down,’ she said, in a tone so void of expression as to fix his instant attention. ‘Afterwards we will sit out on the piazza, and perhaps Rosemary will play to us.’
‘That will be delightful,’ he answered, politely acquiescent; but his mind was asking: ‘What is the matter? What is she going to say?’
He became agitated with the expectation of hearing something momentous about Rosemary. But, after a pause, Mrs. Fairfield did but add the commonplace remark that his was an uncommon name.
‘Yes.’ Disappointment and relief strove together in his tone.
‘Are you the son of a certain Stephen Redshawe, I wonder?’
‘Yes,’ he said again, with quickening interest.