But abruptly, even while she was still laughing to herself, Ronnie's mother grew aware of trouble. Her mind sensed drama: a drama actually in progress; here; close beside her. This "charming woman," this Mrs. Brunton, radiated, despite her charm, an aura of tension, of the acutest mental tension. Meanwhile Ronnie had hardly opened his mouth since they sat down. For the next ten minutes Julia Cavendish also "made conversation."
"Almost time we were getting a move on; it's past one o'clock," interrupted James Wilberforce--and precipitated crisis.
For that this was crisis, a definite thought-crisis, each of the participants in it--Julia, Aliette, Ronnie--recognized as they rose to their feet. Behind their conventionally smiling faces seethed minds so violently perturbed that to each it seemed impossible for thought to remain unbetrayed.
"This is the woman," thought Julia Cavendish. "This is the woman whom Ronnie loves. Somehow I must save him from her. Somehow I must save them both. Otherwise it means ruin, absolute ruin. Disgrace!"
But no thought of ruin troubled the lovers.
"I can't let him go like this," thought the woman. "I can't lose him. I must speak. I must say, 'Ronnie, Ronnie, I don't hate you for loving me.'"
And the man thought: "I wonder if she is hating me. I wonder why she's so reserved, so aloof. I must find out. I must have a word with her. Just one word--alone."
And he had his word, the barest whisper as their hands clasped: "May I telephone you to-night?"
Only the tiniest pressure of Aliette's gloved fingers gave consent.