Occasional bursts of laughter came from her court. Professor Theobald looked furtively round, as if seeking some one, or watching the effect of his conduct on Mrs. Temperley.
Could he be trying to make her jealous of Valeria?
Hadria gave a sudden little laugh while Lord Engleton—a shy, rather taciturn man—was shewing her his wife’s last picture. Hadria had to explain the apparent discourtesy as best she could.
The picture was of English meadows at sunset.
“They are the meadows you see from your windows,” said Lord Engleton. “That village is Masham, with the spire shewing through the trees. I daresay you know the view pretty well.”
“I doubt,” she answered, with the instinct of extravagance that annoyed Hubert, “I doubt if I know anything else.”
Lord Engleton brought a portfolio full of sketches for her to see.
“Lady Engleton has been busy.”
As Hadria laid down the last sketch, her eyes wandered round the softly-lighted, dimly beautiful room, and suddenly she was seized with a swift, reasonless, overpowering sense of happiness that she felt to be atmospheric and parenthetical in character, but all the more keen for that reason, while it lasted. The second black inexorable semicircle was ready to enclose the little moment, but its contents had the condensed character of that which stands within limits, and reminded her, with a little sting, as of spur to horse, of her sharp, terrible aptitude for delight and her hunger for it. Why not, why not? What pinched, ungenerous philosophy was it that insisted on voluntary starvation? One saw its offspring in the troops of thin white souls that hurry, like ghosts, down the avenues of Life.
Again Professor Theobald’s stealthy glance was directed towards Mrs. Temperley.