CHAPTER XI—“THE SINS OF THE FATHERS”
A FEW days later, Jean, coming in from a long tramp across country in company with Nick and half a dozen dogs of various breeds, discovered Tormarin lounging in a chair by the fire. He was in riding kit, having just returned from visiting an outlying corner of the estates where his bailiff had suggested that a new plantation might be made, and Jean eyed his long supple figure with secret approval. Like most well-built Englishmen, he looked his best in kit that demanded the donning of breeches and leggings.
A fine rain was falling out of doors, and beads of moisture clung to Jean’s clothes and sparkled in the blown tendrils of russet hair which had escaped from beneath the little turban hat she was wearing. Apparently, however, her appearance did not rouse Tormarin to any reciprocal appreciation, for, after bestowing the briefest of glances upon her as she entered, he averted his eyes, concentrating his attention upon the misty ribands of smoke that drifted upwards from his cigarette.
Jean knelt down on the hearth, and, pulling off her rain-soaked gloves, held out her hands to the fire’s cheerful blaze.
“It’s good-bye to all the skating, I’m afraid,” she said regretfully. “Nick says we’re not likely to have another hard frost like the last, now that the weather has broken so completely.”
“No. It’s April next month—supposedly springtime, you know,” returned Blaise indifferently.
He seemed disinclined to talk, and Jean eyed him contemplatively. His attitude towards her baffled her as much as ever. He was unfailingly courteous and considerate, but he remained, nevertheless, unmistakably aloof, avoiding her whenever it was politely possible, and when it was not, treating her with a cool neutrality of manner that was as complete a contrast to his demeanour when they were together at Montavan as could well be imagined. Indeed, sometimes Jean almost wondered if the events of that day they spent amid the snows had really taken place—they seemed so far away, so entirely unrelated to her present life, notwithstanding the fact that she was in daily contact with the man who had shared them with her.
“It was rather uncomplimentary of you not to come skating with us a solitary once,” she remarked at last, an accent of reproach in her voice. “Was my performance on the rink at Montavan so execrable that you felt you couldn’t risk it again?”
He looked up, his glance meeting hers levelly.