Usually, Wynifred easily held her own among women with twice her charms, by the spell of her conversation; but to-night she was silent—abstracted—trying to give her best attention to her neighbor, but with ears stretched to catch the accents of the low, hearty Irish voice at the end of the table. Lady Mabel, who had heard something of the girl's brilliancy, was quite cast down. Wyn absolutely declined the rôle of Authoress to-night, and was almost stupid in some of her answers, avowing that she did not believe in the astral fluid, and getting hopelessly wrecked on the subject of Avatars, which dimly recalled to her mind Browning's poem, "What's become of Waring?"
When the move was made, and the ladies rose from table, it was almost with a pang that she left the room in which Claud remained. She dared not lift her eyes to his, as he stood holding back the door for them to file out, yet the bent, shy head inspired in him a hope unfelt before. Was consciousness awake at last;—that consciousness which for his own amusement he had tried to stir at Edge, and which had annoyed him so greatly by falling to sleep again and declining to be roused? A dream of utter personal happiness enfolded him, and made him a more negligent host than was his wont; and, as Percivale too was aching to be in the drawing-room, the male contingent soon made their appearance, to the delight of the ladies and the chagrin of the professional gentlemen, who most of them found a good deal of wine necessary to support their enormous and continuous brain-efforts.
But no further word with Miss Allonby was possible for Claud.
A sudden suspicion had flashed across the mind of Lady Mabel—dismissed as unlikely, but still leaving just enough weight to make her determine that no unnecessary words should pass between them. She did not like Wynifred, and she had never imagined for a moment that her brother did, until to-night. Even now she was by no means sure of it; only Claud seemed abstracted and unlike himself. She dexterously kept him employed with first one person, then another, using the same tactics with the girl, until the cruelly short evening was past, and Wynifred had to rise and make her adieux, feeling something as if she had been through a surgical operation—that it was over—and that she was living still.
Never would she visit that house again, she truly vowed, as she dragged her tired limbs upstairs. This was the limit of her endurance. Not any motive, whether of self-interest, or of foolish, worse than foolish infatuation, should drag her there. As she came down Claud stood in the hall at the foot of the staircase, waiting.
"Are you driving home alone, Miss Allonby?"
"Yes; I could not ask Osmond to fetch me from this house, could I? But I am not nervous, thank you."
"But I am, for you. Will you not allow me to come with you?"
Now, if ever, must be the moment of strength—now one last effort of self-command. Let the heart which is bleeding to cry, "Come!" be silenced—let maidenly pride step in. What! allow Claud Cranmer to drive home with you when you are in this mood—when one kind word would draw the weak tears in floods—oh, never, never, never!
"Come with me, Mr. Cranmer? On no account, thank you,"—a chilly manner, a spice of surprise at the offer. "It will break up your sister's party. Good-night."