“I wonder why space is blue,” she said, “and why it’s so much bluer some days than others, even when there aren’t any clouds.”
A step on the terrace behind her put an end to her wondering. Doctor Hilary came round the corner of the house.
“I’ve taken your invitation for granted, Duchessa, as I happened to be out this way,” said he as he shook hands.
“Is old Mrs. Mosely still so ill?” asked Trix, sympathy in her voice.
Miss Tibbutt kept her eyes almost guiltily on her knitting. Pia, glancing at her, laughed inwardly.
“She’s better to-day,” responded Doctor Hilary cheerfully. And then he sat down. Trix had descended from the table, and seated herself in a basket chair.
Dale brought out the tea in a few minutes, and put it on the table Trix had vacated. The conversation was trivial and desultory, even more trivial and desultory than most tea-time conversation. Miss Tibbutt was too occupied with Pia’s recent revelation to have much thought for speech, Doctor Hilary was never a man of many words, the Duchessa had been marvellously lacking in conversation of late, and Trix’s occasional remarks were mainly outspoken reflections on the sunshine and the flowers, which required no particular response. Nevertheless she was conscious of a certain flatness in her companions, and wondered vaguely what had caused it.
“I’m going to Llandrindod Wells to-morrow,” said she presently.
Doctor Hilary looked up quickly.
“Then your visit here has come to an end?” he queried.