She stopped again. Sigrid had risen to her feet. She seemed not to have heard the last sentence. She picked up the Dresden shepherdess with a light, reckless hand.
"How pretty it is! Why are you parting with it? Who's the lucky recipient——?"
"It's a wedding present." She felt a sick misery creep over her. "For Anne and Tristram——?"
"Ah, yes—of course—for Anne and Tristram——" Her voice was very level and matter-of-fact, rather indifferent, as though she were echoing mechanically something that scarcely reached her intelligence.
Then a shadow fell across the sunlight patch on the worn matting, and both women looked up. James Barclay stood on the verandah. He raised his hand in a military salute.
"I've come for Sigrid, Mrs. Compton," he said. "She was such an unconscionable time, and one is naturally impatient. Please forgive, if you were discussing secrets."
His dark eyes were on Mrs. Compton's face, intent, curious, vaguely appealing. The thrill of loathing and contempt which had passed through her gave place to a bitter amusement. He was so wonderfully, correctly dressed, so desperately at ease. She stared back at him, burning with her first instinctive revolt against his presence. Then she remembered. She glanced at Sigrid, who was still toying idly with the Dresden shepherdess. Something in the resolute submission of that proud, self-reliant figure set fire to all the chivalry in Mrs. Compton's blood. She turned again. She heard herself speaking:
"We're very pleased—won't you both stay for tea? And—and I was just saying—I'm giving a dinner next week—to celebrate—your engagement—if it suits you——"
It was done. She felt as though she had cut through a dam, and that the torrent was on her. She saw Sigrid look up swiftly and then glance at the man by the window.
He bowed gravely, but she caught the triumphant flash in his eyes.