The morning had been devoted to the preparation of Nance's trousseau—a matter which, in these days, claimed absorbed attention; and, later, the sisters had lunched together at one of the restaurants.
The day—or at least the earlier portion of it—had been a complete success. But now, as Clodagh's motor car sped along under the canopy of trees, already whitened with summer dust, a cloud seemed to have fallen upon the sisters' gaiety. Clodagh lay back in her corner, looking straight in front of her; Nance sat stiffly upright, her face flushed, her head held at an aggressive angle.
At last, unable to maintain the silence longer, she turned and looked at her sister.
"It—it seems to me so stupid!" she said.
Clodagh took up a parasol that lay beside her, and opened it with a little jerk.
"Was it my fault that he lunched at 'Prince's'? Was it my fault that he sat at the table next to ours? You know perfectly well that I don't care where he lunches—or whether he ever lunches——"
Nance maintained her rigid attitude.
"I wonder if he is of that opinion," she said dryly.
Clodagh flushed suddenly.
"It is you who are being stupid! Lord Deerehurst is one of my best friends. It's impossible to treat him rudely when we chance to meet."