As we have seen him doing more than once this afternoon, Gerald here tried to get his clue from Brenda herself, her face, her atmosphere. Yet he knew, as has already been said, that it was Brenda Foss’s way to keep these as much as she could from telling anything to the world. This wariness notwithstanding a tinge of unaccustomed rose had spread through the clear white of her cheek; her eyes had in them noticeably more life. Emotion or mere self-consciousness?
On one point only he was satisfied: Brenda had done nothing that involved deceit. Into the very structure of her face, which had almost nothing left of the American look, was built a certain Puritan truthfulness. She could conceal if she must, but hated to shuffle, to prevaricate. She concealed exactly because of that.
“Go on with the Sienese masters, Gerald,” she bade him, collectedly. “I am listening, and learning a lot.”
As they passed under the great arch of the Roman Gate, Gerald was saying modestly:
“I don’t know anything about them, really. I’ve just been impressed by a thing or two. This Lorenzetti, for instance–” And so on up the viale to the house.
In the drawing-room they found Mrs. Foss and Leslie, who, just home from town, tired and thirsty, had had tea brought to them, and were strengthening themselves before even taking off their hats.
Their welcome to Gerald was mingled with reproaches of the sort that flatters more than it hurts.
“It’s perfect ages since we saw you. We thought you 26had forgotten us. What have you been doing this long, long time?”
“It is you, who are never at home, my dear friends,” Gerald took his turn. “I was here a fortnight or so ago. Didn’t Lily tell you? Of course she told you, and you have forgotten, so it’s I, properly, who should be calling names.”
“Have you been quite well, Gerald?” Mrs. Foss asked in her maternal voice, after a more careful look at him.