He stood over her, distressed. Was Barbara going to treat him to a fit of hysterics?
"Don't laugh. Don't be silly, child."
But Barbara went on laughing, with her face in the cushions, abandoned to her vision. From far up the park they heard the sound of Kimber's hooter, then the grinding of the car, with Fanny in it, on the gravel outside. Barbara sat up suddenly and dried her eyes.
They stared at each other, the stare of accomplices.
"Come, child," he said, "pull yourself together."
Barbara got up and looked in the glass and saw the green jade necklace hanging on her still. She took it off and laid it on the table beside the forgotten sketch-book.
"I think," she said, "you must have meant this for Mrs. Levitt. But you may thank your stars it's only me, this time."
He pretended not to hear her, not to see the necklace, not to know that she was going from him. She stood a moment with her back to the door, facing him. It was her turn to stand there and be listened to.
"Mr. Waddington," she said, "some people might think you wicked. I only think you funny."
He drew himself up and looked noble.