There were several other guests in the house, and the party spent most of the hot afternoon about the tennis net and lounging under the shadow of a big copper beech on the lawn. Once when Miss Weston left her to play in a set at tennis, Arabella Kinnaird leaned over the back of Ida’s chair.
“You seem to have made rather a favorable impression upon Julia Weston, and, as a rule, she’s unapproachable,” she said, with a mischievous smile.
Ida’s eyebrows straightened, which, to those acquainted with her, was a rather ominous sign.
“Won’t you keep that woman away from me?” she begged. “I don’t want to be rude, but if I see very much more of her, I may not be able to help it. In one way, I’m sorry I met her. You’re not all like that.”
“Well,” said Arabella, “perhaps it is a pity. There really are some of us to whom you could talk without having your pet illusions about the old country shattered. In fact, I can think of one or two women about here who would strengthen them. Can’t you, Mr. Ainslie?”
Ainslie, who was standing near them, smiled.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Unfortunately, however, they are, as a rule, retiring. It’s the other kind that is usually in evidence. Do you feel very badly disappointed with us, Miss Stirling?”
“No,” replied Ida, with a thoughtfulness which brought the smile more plainly into his eyes. “In fact, I want to think well of you. It’s a thing we wouldn’t quite admit, but at bottom I believe we all do.”
Then she turned to Arabella.
“By the way, what has become of Mr. Weston?”