He did not know that, at less cost, and without seeking it, he was near to the opportunity.
Perhaps he would have sought it, but for a circumstance that turned up just in time to tranquillise him.
He was standing by the entrance, close to a set screen. The Girdwoods were retiring from the room, Julia leaning on the arm of Swinton. As she approached the spot he saw that her eyes were upon him. He endeavoured to read their expression. Was it scornful? Or tender?
He could not tell. Julia Girdwood was a girl who had rare command of her countenance.
Suddenly, as if impressed by some bold thought, or perhaps a pang of repentance, she let go the arm of her partner, dropping behind, and leaving him to proceed with the others. Then swerving a little, so as to pass close to where Maynard stood, she said, in a hurried half-whisper:
“Very unkind of you to desert us!”
“Indeed!”
“You should have come back for an explanation,” added she, reproachfully. “I could not help it.”
Before he could make reply she was gone; but the accent of reproach left tingling in his ear was anything but disagreeable.
“A strange girl this!” muttered he, in astonished soliloquy. “Most certainly an original! After all, perhaps, not so ungrateful. It may have been due to the mother.”