Gwen looked into his face, and saw with her usual intuition exactly how matters stood.
“Very well,” she said airily, getting up. “Go and make the funeral pile of your own happiness and hers as well. I’m sure I don’t care, and I’ve got quite as much on my hands out here just now as I can well attend to, so I’ll be quite relieved to leave you to look after your own affairs entirely. But when you’ve managed to fit a square block into a round hole by becoming a pattern, stay-at-home country squire, just let me know, as by that time I shall be wanting to see something unique. Good-by! I have an important engagement,” and without giving him time to offer his escort she was off.
Lawrence remained where he was, and thought of Eileen, drawing back into deep shadow, and staring moodily down at the gay throng below him. After a long time, getting no nearer to a decision, he went below again and joined a small coterie of men about the Hon. Jack Carew, discussing the probability of disturbances on the Afghan frontier in the spring.
A few days later, while still in a state of indecision, he made the discovery that Gwen was in a fix. He came upon her unexpectedly in the morning-room, and caught her with tears in her eyes before she had time to brush them away. She did so angrily enough directly he entered, but by that time he had seen them. Lawrence looked at her a moment, and then crossed and carefully closed the door and came back again.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, as if he meant to be told.
“Nothing,” she answered shortly.
“When I came in your were crying.”
“No, I wasn’t!” and she tossed her head.
“Fibber,” from Lawrence.
“Well, I suppose I can please myself.”