Eliot’s glance travelled swiftly from her face to that of her companion. His expression was quite impenetrable—mask-like in its impassivity. Mrs. Hilyard bent forward, holding out her hand.
“Have you forgotten me, Mr. Coventry?”
For an instant the man and woman looked deep into each other’s eyes, as though to bridge the time which had passed since last they met—questioning what the intervening years had brought to each of them. But Eliot made no attempt to take the outheld hand. He did not appear to see it, and Mrs. Hilyard let it drop slowly down again on to her lap.
“Forgotten Cara Daintree?” he said lightly. “Is it likely I should?”
“Cara Hilyard, now.” She corrected him a shade nervously.
“Oh, yes. Hilyard, isn’t it? Of course.”
His glance flashed over her face, searching and cold as a hawk’s. She winced under it, but faced him gallantly, though a flush crept up under her clear skin.
“I hear we are near neighbours. I hope”—she forced herself to meet those hard, unflinching eyes—“I hope you will come and see me, Mr. Coventry.”
He bowed stiffly.
“Thanks,” was all he said. Then, laying his hand on the cob’s shining flank, he deliberately addressed himself to Ann: “Is Dick Turpin still behaving himself properly?”