'And not an hour too soon, I am afraid,' said Lord Fettercairn, with his sandy-grey eyebrows deeply knitted.
No one asked 'why,' so a silence ensued, and a little later in the evening Finella said to Dulcie:
'Why are you so silent to-night?'
'Am I so?'
'Yes—even sad—triste.'
'Sad—you don't mean cross?'
'No, Dulcie dear, you never are cross.'
'I am full of very weary thoughts, and wish to retire, if Lady Fettercairn can spare me,' she added, raising her voice.
'Of course—go,' replied the latter; and Dulcie, painfully conscious that her employer had been more than usually cold, hard, and even bitter to her—all, no doubt, apropos of Shafto's return—bowed and murmured 'good-night,' with a soft and lingering glance at Finella.
Shafto returning! Dulcie was always nervous about his future conduct and her own position, and she could not prepare herself again for dissembling in public and hating in private—for the inevitable meetings at table and elsewhere. Over and above all was the dread that by his intense cunning he might work her mischief—a mischief that to her might prove social ruin.