He had laughed sometimes when his wife had represented to him that certain people in Epsom, alluded to in a hushed voice and mysterious nods, were really “it.” He knew so well that they were not; nothing to do with it at all. But he always recognised “it” at once when it was there. He did not recognise “it” in the Gales; there was a certain quality of rest arising from assurance of possession that they lacked, but Alice Du Cane had got “it,” most assuredly she had got “it.”
He liked to watch her. She moved with so beautiful a quiet and carried herself with so sure a dignity; he admired her enormously, but had been quite prepared to keep his distance.
And then suddenly he had seen that she was in love with Tony, and she was at once drawn into the vortex. She became something more than a person at whom one looked, whom one admired as a picture; she was part of the situation. He had been extremely sorry for her, and it had been her unhappiness more than anything else that had worried him about his part in the affair. But now, as he saw her there watching him with a smile and leaning ever so slightly on her parasol, of ever so delicate a pink, he was furiously embarrassed.
He had been sleeping, probably with his mouth open, and she had been watching him. He jumped to his feet.
“Oh, Miss Du Cane,” he stammered, “I really——”
But she broke in upon him, laughing.
“Oh! what a shame! Really, Mr. Maradick, I didn’t mean to, but the gravel scrunched or something and it woke you. I’ve been doing the same thing, sleeping, I mean; it’s impossible to do anything else with heat like this.” Then her face grew grave. “All the same I’m not sure that I’m sorry, because I have wanted to talk to you very badly all day, and now, unless you do want to go to sleep again, it does seem to be a chance.”
“Why, of course,” he answered gravely, and he made way for her on the seat. He felt the sinister afternoon pressing upon him again. He was disturbed, worried, anxious; his nerves were all to pieces. And then she did most certainly embarrass him. The very way that she sat down, the careful slowness of her movement, and the grace with which she leant slightly forward so that the curve of her neck was like the curve of a pink shell against her white dress, embarrassed him. And he was tired, most undoubtedly tired; it was all beginning to be too much for him.
And then he suddenly caught a look in her eyes as she turned towards him; something melancholy and appealing in it touched his heart and his embarrassment left him.
“Mr. Maradick,” she began hurriedly, with her face again turned away from him, “you are much older than I am, and so I expect you’ll understand what I am trying to get at. And anyhow, you know all that’s been going on this week, more than anyone else does, and so there’s no need to beat about the bush. Besides, I always hate it. I always want to get straight at the thing, don’t you?”