“You’re awfully good! I am grateful to you.”
“That’s right!” Sylvia said, laughing. And she went upon her serene way, to brush her teeth and open her windows and jump into bed with her book of essays, always adequate and always sweet.
Gabrielle determined, as she usually determined at night, to begin again to-morrow, to force herself to meet Sylvia’s friendship and affection, David’s friendship and affection, with what was only, after all, a normal, natural response. Why must she tremble, suspect, watch, turn red and turn white in this maddening and idiotic manner, when these two older and infinitely superior persons only wanted her to be pleasant, natural, friendly, as they were? The younger girl felt as if she were living over a powder magazine; at David’s most casual word her throat would thicken, and her words become either incredibly foolish or stupidly heavy; and when he and Sylvia were together and out of her hearing, her soul and mind were in a tumult beside which actual bodily pain would have been a relief.
When they cheerfully asked her to join them on their way down for an afternoon of idling or reading on the shore, Gay put herself—as she furiously felt—in a ridiculous position by gruffly refusing. The two, and Aunt Flora, spectacled and armed with a book, would look at her in astonishment.
“Oh, if Aunt Flora’s going——” Gay might stammer, in her embarrassment using the very phrase she meant not to use. And Sylvia’s pretty mouth would twitch at the corners, and she would exchange a demure look with David, as if to say—Gabrielle fancied—“Isn’t she a deliciously gauche little creature? She is trying to clear the tracks for our affair!”
If, on the other hand, Gabrielle came innocently from half an hour among the sweet warmth and flying colour and the buzzing of bees about the sweet-pea vines, to meet David and Sylvia in the path, she might hear Sylvia say lightly and good-temperedly—and might lie awake in the nights remembering it with a thumping heart and cheeks hot with shame!—“Not now, David. We can discuss this later!”
On a certain burning July day, several weeks after Sylvia’s homecoming, all four Flemings had planned to drive into Crowchester in the new car, for some shopping. Sylvia’s birthday was but a week ahead, and she was to have a house party for the event. To-day she had a neat list: gimp, enamel, candles, glue, lemonade glasses, Japanese lanterns? (with a question mark) and charcoal? (with another). For there were to be a beach picnic and a garden fête next week.
Just before they started, however, Gay begged to be excused. She was feeling the heat of the day, she said, and wanted to spend the afternoon quietly down on the shore with her Italian grammar. Instantly, without premeditation, David felt himself growing excited again—here was his chance at last for a talk alone with her; a chance that the last few weeks had not afforded him before. The sudden hope of it put him almost into a betraying confusion of excuses; but Sylvia, dismissing him amiably, fancied she knew the cause—and an entirely different cause—of his defection.
For David was in no mood to dance attendance upon his pretty elder cousin this particular afternoon. He had driven the new car down from Boston the week before with real enjoyment; it was a beautiful car, and David, who was not after all an experienced driver, was rather proud of his safe handling of it. But since it had been at Wastewater Sylvia had shown a strong preference for Walker’s driving. Walker was a nice young fellow of perhaps nineteen, a newcomer, who was to act as chauffeur and to help John with errands, and perhaps in September, when the road was less used, to teach Sylvia to drive.
For some obscure reason it angered David to have to sit idle beside the pleasantly youthful and amiable Walker and hear Sylvia’s clear-cut directions. He would rather, he thought ungraciously, he would far rather walk.