Mrs. Caistor Scorton’s husband had been one of those hard-faced men who had made fortunes in the War. When he died she had got the money; and her enemies said that the hard face had been bequeathed also, in a codicil to his will. She certainly had a very keen appreciation of the value of a Treasury note.
Then there was Douglas Fairmile, with a big private income. His only worry at present was whether Cynthia Pennard would marry him or not. No great need for anxiety there, Eileen reflected. Cynthia wasn’t throwing herself at his head, certainly; but it was one of those affairs which are bound to come right in the end. If only her own affairs would look as bright!
Finally, her partner, Conway Westenhanger, very obviously hadn’t a care in the world. Those mechanical inventions of his were known to be small gold mines; he wasn’t in love with anyone; and he got on well with people. What more could a man want?
Half unconsciously she compared the two men. Douglas was once described to her as “one of those delightful people who can always be cheery without getting on your nerves with it.” He had the gift of playing the fool in season without looking like a fool while he was doing it. One laughed with him, always, and never at him. Conway Westenhanger was a more complex person, but just as attractive in his own way. She liked his mouth; its clean-cut lines seemed to have something sympathetic in their curves; and the thinker’s sharply-marked vertical lines between the eyebrows rather added to the attractiveness of his face.
Mrs. Brent broke the silence, addressing her host. “Rollo! would you mind if we have that window opened further? The heat’s almost unbearable to-night.”
Old Dangerfield came out of his brown study with a start, made a gesture of acquiescence, and threw open the window to its full extent. Through the embrasure a faint breath of air wandered in from the outer twilight, laden with the smell of parched soil and the heavy perfume of flowers; but it brought no coolness with it.
“I suppose this doesn’t affect you, Mr. Wraxall?” Mrs. Brent turned to the American beside her. “You’re a New Yorker, aren’t you? Heat waves won’t trouble you as much as they do me. You’re acclimatised, no doubt.”
“It’s warm to-night. It’s certainly not what one calls cool. But I’ll admit that I’ve known it hotter over there. And this air of yours hasn’t got that used-up feeling about it that city air has. It’s fresh, even if it’s hot. You’d know it was garden air and not street air, even if the flowers weren’t there. But you’re wrong about my being acclimatised. I don’t use New York much in the summer.”
“Of course, you’ve got a country big enough to let you choose your climate for almost any day in the year, haven’t you? Well, there’s something to be said for an island. If this heat gets worse I shall simply take the Kestrel away for a night or two until the hot spell is over. Another couple of days of this would be unbearable. Luckily the Dangerfields understand me; they won’t be offended if I disappear without warning. One would think twice about doing that with most people, but Friocksheim is a real Liberty Hall.”
“They’ve been very kind in asking me down,” the American explained. “I didn’t know them; but I got an introduction; and when I explained I was interested in some of their things, they invited me to stay for a few days.”