The caress had been grateful to Katherine, the cool cheek dear to her lips, the clasp of the strong arms reassuring. Yet, in her present state of depression, she was inclined to distrust even that which consoled, and there seemed a lack in the fervour of this embrace. Was it not just a trifle perfunctory, as of one who pays toll, rather than of one who claims a privilege?
"You'll be glad too, my dearest, I trust?" she said, craving further encouragement.
Richard twisted the chair back into place again, leaned forward to note the hour of the clock set in the centre of the gold and enamel inkstand.
"Oh! I'm not prophetic. I don't pretend to go before the event and register my sensations until both they and I have fairly arrived. It's awfully bad economy to get ahead of yourself and live in the day after to-morrow. To-day's enough—more than enough for you, I'm afraid, when you've had a large contingent of the Whitney people to luncheon. Do go and rest, mother. Uncle William is disposed of. I've started him out for a tramp with Julius, so you need not have him on your mind."
But neither in Richard's words nor in his manner did Lady Calmady find the fulness of assurance she craved.
"Thanks dearest," she said. "That is very thoughtful of you. I will see Helen and find out——"
"Oh! don't trouble about her either," Richard put in. Again he studied the jewel-rimmed dial of the little clock. "I found she wanted to go to Newlands to bid Mrs. Cathcart good-bye. It seems Miss St. Quentin is back there for a day or two. So I promised to drive her over as soon as we were quit of the Fallowfeild party."
"It is late for so long a drive."
Richard looked up quickly and his face wore that expression of challenge once again.
"I know it is—and so I am afraid we ought to start at once. I expect the carriage round immediately." Then repenting:—"You'll take care of yourself won't you, mother, and rest?"