She went forward with apparent cordiality, and, taking her visitor's hand, kissed her.
"How nice and energetic you look! You make me feel very lazy. I wasn't in the mood for a ride this morning. Come in! Sit down!"
Lady Frances responded to the suggestion by moving across the room. Pausing by the breakfast-table, she bent forward and buried her face for a moment in the flowers, at the same time stealing a swift glance at the scattered letters beside Clodagh's plate. Then, straightening herself again with apparent nonchalance, she moved to the open window and stood looking down upon the park.
"Clodagh!" she said suddenly. "Are you busy? Can we talk?"
Clodagh turned sharply, and almost with a gesture of surprise. The whole round of her intercourse with Lady Frances Hope had been of so easy, of so superficial a nature—the whole tone of their friendship had been pitched in so unemotional a key—since the one night in the Paris hotel, when they had touched upon things vital to them both—that the suggestion of reality, or even gravity, brought a sudden uneasiness to her mind.
"Oh, of course!" she said uncertainly—"of course! Let us sit down."
She returned to her own seat and indicated another to her visitor with a slightly hurried movement.
But Lady Frances did not respond to the invitation. Instead, she wandered back to the table, and again bent over the bowl of flowers.
"Why are we always climbing—only to slip back again?" she asked irrelevantly.
Again a faint uneasiness touched Clodagh's face.