“What is Constantia teaching you?”
“Me again,” she returned with a show of indignation, “why on earth should that worry you?”
“I don’t like new facets to familiar diamonds,” he grumbled obscurely, “you are getting too old. Patricia.”
“You are losing your manners.” But even under the banter the colour died from her face and her hand fell listlessly to her side.
“I won’t allow you to be older than I am.”
She was saved further embarrassment by Renata’s entrance, but all dinner time she was conscious of his 305 silent “awareness” of her and was troubled by it, and it was a new and unpleasing sensation to be troubled by any attitude of Christopher’s. Then his scrutiny stopped abruptly as if she were suddenly placed outside his range of vision, and that attitude suited her mind as poorly as the other.
She hardly knew if it were by her own will or Christopher’s that she sat with him and Aymer that evening. She was quite powerless to resist the request that might have been a command, and there is some pain in life that we cling to, dreading its loss more acutely than its presence.
Mr. Aston was away, a rare occurrence now, and the three sat talking before the fire, till the dear familiar intercourse and the peace put to sleep the dull ache in Patricia’s heart. They talked—or rather the men talked—of Christopher’s latest experiences abroad. He had been to the scene of a vast tunnelling operation in which his part was to come later.
“They suggest we should take over their men’s shanties as they stand.”
“Will you?” demanded Cæsar. These things were in Christopher’s hands.