"That depends on the length of your visit."
"Oh, about a fortnight."
"I shall hardly stay so long."
"Good-bye, then. Don't forget Denham in August. Lady Frances will be delighted to see you."
The very atmosphere seemed lighter and brighter to Glynn when Deering was safe away. Lambert was visibly relieved, and his daughter reflected her father's mood. Things went on much as before. Madame Davilliers' Fridays were more crowded and varied. They made little excursions to Sèvre, and to the beautiful woods of Mendan; sometimes with the Davilliers, sometimes only a quartet—Lambert, Elsie, Madame Weber, and Glynn.
These were delightful days. The quiet harmony of the present made Glynn regardless of the future. It was wonderfully interesting to draw Elsie from the observant silence which was habitual to her into sympathetic talk. There was always something to discover in her, something to win, of confidence, of self-revelation, and she was so teachable, with all her honest clinging to the conclusions of her own clear sense.
There were moments when his hesitation disappeared, and Glynn was almost resolved to make her his wife if she would have him; but that vague cloud of mystery was a bad accompaniment for married life.
The only discordant ingredient in this happy interlude was the occasional intrusion of Vincent, to whom Lambert showed a curious ceremonious politeness, dashed at times with epigrammatic bitterness, of which the dandified American took no notice. Elsie, on the contrary, was more friendly to him than formerly.
It was about ten days after Glynn's return, and he was debating in his own mind the prudence and advisability of a retreat while he had still some command of his own will. Dinner was over in Lambert's pretty salle à manger. Elsie had left her father and his friend to talk and smoke for the lazy, comfortable half-hour which succeeds the evening meal.