"A mother!" Clodagh looked round impulsively. "Oh, tell me what she is like!"
With a certain spontaneity, Gore turned to respond to her question; but before his eyes met hers, their glance was intercepted by a shrewd, amused, inquiring look from Barnard. The effect of the look was strange. His emotion so suddenly aroused, died suddenly. His face became passive, even a little cold. He straightened his shoulders, and gave the restrained, self-conscious laugh that the Englishman resorts to when he feels that his sentiments have entrapped him.
"Oh, you must not ask me what my mother is like, Mrs. Milbanke," he said. "I could not give you an unbiassed opinion. As it is, I have been wasting your time unpardonably. Barnard, do you think Mrs. Milbanke will excuse you for ten minutes?"
Barnard rose slowly.
"Do not put me to the pain of saying 'yes,'" he exclaimed. "Let me imagine that I am tearing myself away against Mrs. Milbanke's express desire. Au revoir, Mrs. Milbanke! Au revoir, James!"
He nodded, and sauntered off in the direction of the hotel door.
A moment later Gore shook hands silently with Clodagh and her husband, and moved away in the same direction.
As he disappeared into the hotel, Milbanke folded his newspaper with interested haste.
"What a well-mannered young man!" he said. "Who is he? What is his name?"
Clodagh was sitting very still, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed upon some distant object.