CHAPTER XXX
ELIZABETH ARRIVES ON THE SCENE
“Ruralizing,” quoth Elizabeth, “agrees with you.”
They were driving in a vehicle politely termed a Victoria. It was not unlike a good-sized bath-chair. It was driven by a one-armed boy. Seeing the driver, Elizabeth had had a moment’s qualm of heart. Then she had seen the horse.
“Oh, it’s a pleasant enough spot,” responded John, “and—and restful.” He coloured the merest trifle beneath his tan.
“Restfulness,” said Elizabeth gravely, “is delightful.”
But she wasn’t deceived, not a bit of it. Neither the pleasantness of Malford, nor its restfulness was accountable for that particular exuberance in John. It was a subtle, indefinable exuberance, which no amount of mere bodily health could cause. It emanated from his mind, his spirit; it surrounded him; he was bathed in it. He might pretend to its non-existence; he might pretend—allowing it—that it was the mere outcome of a country life, but Elizabeth was not deceived.
“Have you met the Delanceys?” she demanded.
“Oh, yes,” he responded airily enough. “They’re—you’ll like them. That rumour you got hold of was correct enough, by the way. There is a claimant. He’s proved his claim. It’s a mere matter of courtesy on his part that he is not already in possession. He will be by the end of the autumn.”
Elizabeth sat up.
“An American?” she said.