“That doesn’t matter. We’ve a dozen pairs up at the house. One of them is sure to fit you. I’ll go and collect a few.”
He wheeled as though to cross the lake on his proposed errand, but Claire Latimer laid her hand quickly on his arm.
“No, no,” she said. “I can’t skate this morning. I’m on my way home.”
“Oh, change your mind!” begged Jean, noticing with friendly amusement Nick’s expression of discontent.
“No, really I can’t” Claire’s face had whitened and her big eyes sought Nick’s in a kind of pathetic appeal. “Adrian is not—very well to-day. My husband,” she added explanatorily to Jean.
The latter was conscious of a sense of shock. She had quite imagined Lady Latimer to be a widow, and had been mentally engaged in weaving the most charming and happy-ever-after of romances since the moment she had seen that wonderful change come over Nick’s face. Probably her impression was due to the manner of his first introduction of Claire’s name, “A friend of ours lives there—Lady Latimer,” without reference to any husband lurking in the background.
She observed that Nick made no further effort to persuade Claire to remain, and after exchanging a few commonplace remarks the latter continued her way back to Charnwood.
It was so nearly lunch time that it did not seem worth while resuming their skating. Besides, with Claire Latimer’s refusal to join them, the occupation seemed to have lost some of its charm, and when Jean suggested a return to the house Nick assented readily.
“She is very sweet—young Lady Latimer,” remarked
Jean, as they walked back over the frostily crisp turf. “But she looks rather sad. And she isn’t the kind of person one associates with sadness. There’s something so young and fresh about her; she makes one think of spring flowers.”