“Do you feel that you have to make excuses for stopping work, after twelve hours of it?” Gertrude asked.
“Yes,” he laughed; “I do feel something of the kind. There’s so much to do and the days are getting shorter fast.”
He glanced at her with appreciation. She wore a thin, black dress made after the latest London mode, which showed to advantage the graceful lines of her tall figure; the Jernynghams, who seldom departed from an established custom, changed their attire every evening. Gertrude had on no hat, and the fading light shone into her face. It was finely cut but cold, the features unusually good. She was a handsome woman, but she lacked warmth and softness.
“I’m in a difficulty,” she told him. “Perhaps you can help—you’re a man of many resources.”
“I’ll be glad to do what I can.”
“We are expecting a visit from three old friends of ours who heard in America of the trouble we are in and want to see us. What can we do with them?”
“I haven’t room,” Prescott answered. “But let me think—Leslie has quite a big house, and it’s only three miles from here. Now that he will have got rid of the harvesters, he might be willing to take your friends in. He and his wife are pleasant people; but I think you met her.”
“Yes. I knew you wouldn’t fail us,” Gertrude said gratefully. “But, after all, I feel inclined to wish they were not coming.”
There was an elusive something in her tone which did not escape Prescott’s notice.
“Why do you wish that?” he asked.