He ought to have been worked up and waiting tremendously. He ought to have spent the morning in writing a poem to her or in writing a delightful poetical love letter she could carry away and read or in wandering alone and thinking about her. He ought to be feeling now like the end of a vigil. He ought to be standing now, a little in the background and with that pleasant flush of his upon his face and that shy, subdued, reluctant look that was so infinitely more flattering than any boldness of admiration. And then she would go towards him, for she was a giving type, and hold out both hands to him, and he, as though he couldn’t help it, in spite of all his British reserve, would take one and hesitate—which made it all the more marked—and kiss it....
Instead of which he was just not there....
No visible disappointment dashed her bravery. She knew that at the slightest flicker Judy and Mrs. Geedge would guess and that anyhow the men would guess nothing. “I’ve rested,” she said, “I’ve rested delightfully. What have you all been doing?”
Judy told of great conversations, Mr. Geedge had been looking for trout in the stream, Mrs. Geedge with a thin little smile said she had been making a few notes and—she added the word with deliberation—“observations,” and Professor Bowles said he had had a round of golf with the Captain. “And he lost?” asked Madeleine.
“He’s careless in his drive and impatient at the greens,” said the Professor modestly.
“And then?”
“He vanished,” said the Professor, recognizing the true orientation of her interest.
There was a little pause and Mrs. Geedge said, “You know—” and stopped short.
Interrogative looks focussed upon her.
“It’s so odd,” she said.