She was horrified to see his face darken with sudden pain.
“Don’t,” he said abruptly, in a stifled voice.
“Oh, my dear—” She was back in his arms in an instant, soothing, comforting, and scolding him all in a breath. “You needn’t worry over my boniness,” she assured him cheerfully. “When we’re married and settled down and I’ve no worries, I expect I shall get appallingly plump and have to take to one of those anti-fat cures.”
“You—fat!” He laughed. “There’s about as much danger of that as of Mrs. Carberry becoming a philanthropist.”
Eliot had been furiously angry when he heard of the gossip which had gathered for a time around Ann’s name and of the part Mrs. Carberry had played in helping to disseminate it, but neither he nor Ann herself had been able to refrain from laughing at the complete volte-face which that excellent lady performed when the announcement of their engagement was made public. She had been one of the first to offer her felicitations, and had paid a special call at the Cottage—this time accompanied by the modest Muriel—to offer them in person. “It will be so delightful to have a chatelaine at Heronsmere at last,” she had gushed. Presumably, recognising that her daughter’s chance of acquiring the coveted position was now reduced, to nil, she had decided—with the promptness of a good general—to accept the fact and adapt her tactics to the altered situation. With mathematical foresight she argued that when Coventry was married Heronsmere would undoubtedly become the centre of a considerable amount of entertaining, and from every point of view it would therefore be wise to be on friendly terms there. After all, there were as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it, and the prospective hospitality which she anticipated would emanate from Heronsmere in the near future should provide excellent opportunities for fishing.
Apart from Mrs. Carberry, everybody seemed genuinely delighted at the engagement—even Miss Caroline. She confusedly mingled regrets “for any misunderstanding” with her congratulations, and Ann, too happy herself to wish any one else to be unhappy, forgave her whole-heartedly. Lady Susan was overflowingly pleased.
“Though, of course,” as she characteristically informed Sir Philip just before he and Tony returned to London, “Eliot’s been blessed far beyond his deserts—like most men. Anyhow, Philip, you may as well make up your mind to accept Doreen as a pis otter for Tony—and do it gracefully, my dear man! Mark my words, marriage will be the making of the boy. Every man ought to be married.”
“I wish you’d held that opinion thirty years ago, Susan,” retorted Sir Philip. “I suppose”—he hesitated, his eyes curiously soft—“it’s too late in the day now?”
“Much too late,” replied Lady Susan promptly, though her eyes, too, were unwontedly soft. “Besides, I could never bear to be parted from the Tribes of Israel—and you know you can’t stand a dog about the house.”
“Drat the man!” she muttered crossly to herself, as the train bearing the Brabazons Londonwards steamed out of the station. She brushed her hand across her eyes as she hopped briskly into the car which had brought them to the station, giving the chauffeur the order “Home!” in a sharper voice than she usually employed towards her servants. “Drat the man! It looks as though a single engagement has demoralised the lot of us.”