There was nothing for it but to leave The Martens as quickly as might be, and return to London; and it was only now that she recognised, fully shown up against the background of her resentment, the pleasant ties and interests that bound her to these people, ties and interests that would have to be broken and dissolved. So, in a fever of irritation, she told herself as she leaned on the low parapet and looked at the river, while Effie broke pieces of mortar from the cracks between the stones.
What, perhaps, rankled deepest in her heart was the expression used by French and repeated by Effie. "There is never a girl but you'll find a better one to match her"—or words to that effect.
Dinner at The Martens was a mid-day function. At half-past one, when Mr. French came home from a walk over the high Downs, he found dinner waiting for him. Miss Grimshaw during the meal seemed to be suffering from a dumbness affecting not only her speech, but her manner; her movements were still and formal, and inexpressive, and she never once looked in his direction, but engaged herself entirely with Effie, who also had a wilted air and appearance.
At tea it was the same.
After tea, Mr. French lit a cigar and went out on the verandah to smoke.
He could not make it out at all. Something had happened in the space of a few hours to make all this difference in the girl. What could that something be? At eleven o'clock she had been all right, yet at half-past one she was a different person.
He was not a man to keep up a misunderstanding without knowing the reason of it, and, having smoked his cigar half through, he went back into the house and to the sitting-room, where the girl was curled up on the sofa, reading "Punch."
"Look here," said French, "what's the matter?"
"I beg your pardon?" said Miss Grimshaw, uncurling herself and sitting half erect.
"What's the matter? Something is wrong. Have I done anything, or what is it?"