The girl swept in with the assurance of an intimate friend. Robert Gloucester followed slowly, his spare figure towering above hers, his face set and strained. Vanna saw at a glance that he was consumed with nervousness, and during the first ten minutes of his stay he hardly allowed himself a glance in Jean’s direction. When she handed tea he took it with eyes fixed on the cup, and promptly sought the corner by Vanna’s side to mumble platitudes about the weather, and listen absently to her replies.
How long would Jean allow so unsatisfactory a state of affairs? “I’ll give her five minutes,” was Vanna’s verdict; but before that time had elapsed Jean had so cleverly manipulated the conversation that Vanna was being questioned across the length of the drawing-room, so that it seemed the most natural thing in the world to suggest a change of seats.
“Come over here, Vanna, dear, and tell them all about it! I’ll talk to Mr Gloucester!” Jean floated across the room in her white dress, and laid a caressing hand on her friend’s shoulder. It was a pure impulse of coquetry which made her take the rose from her belt as she seated herself in the discarded corner of the sofa. One could make such pretty by-play with a flower, twirling it to and fro, stroking the petals, daintily drinking in its fragrance. To the woman that rose gave an added consciousness of power; from the man the sight of it took away what little composure he retained. His hand shook until the teaspoon rattled against the cup; and he placed it unemptied on the table by his side. He stammered; he was unhinged, tongue-tied. Jean, who had been prepared to rebuke self-confidence, adopted an instant change of tactics. Her little airs and graces died a rapid death; the tilt of the head was replaced by a gentle droop, her complacent smile changed to an artless appeal. The poor, dear man must be encouraged. He had been buried in the wilds, with lions and elephants for companions; he was all unnerved to find himself in an English drawing-room, face to face with a pretty girl.
“I’ve waited such a long time to see you,” said Jean softly. “Edith and I are great friends and she has told me so much about you. I could stand quite a stiff examination on your doings and goings of the last few years. Some day you shall cross-question me and see. When I’ve been particularly good I’ve even heard extracts from your letters. I can’t possibly treat you as a stranger!”
“I—I ought to apologise. I hope you have not been bored.”
He looked up as he spoke, and for the first time met the full gaze of Jean’s eyes—those eyes which were a revelation of beauty even to dull elderly members of her own sex. Gloucester’s gaze lingered with an intensity which held her bound in return; but mingling with his eagerness was an expression of humility, almost of awe, which Jean found strangely disconcerting. She lowered her lids at his glance, forgetful for once of the effect of fringed ladies, and made her reply with a little tremble of nervousness in her voice.
“Not at all bored, but very interested. Are you glad to be back in England; and how does it look to you after your long absence? Are you going to stay at home?”
“I’m glad—immensely glad! Yes, I shall stay,” he said with abrupt, almost violent emphasis. Then more quietly, “The country looks—neat! Such neat little fields on either side the line. I should grow impatient in the country, but London enthrals. I love the dull old roar, and the smoke, and the misty light of this weak little sun. A man who has lived long abroad seldom cares for rural England, but he never loses his love of London. It is the best of its kind—there’s something in that; but the country is tame.”
Jean mused, a smile twitching her lips.
“I have always said that if I could choose an exact site for my home of the future I’d have the front windows facing west over a range of mountains, the bigger the better—the Himalayas for choice—and the back windows over Piccadilly! Our tastes agree, it appears; but for pity’s sake don’t let our sun hear you speaking in such disrespectful tones. It is so touchy and difficile that it is capable of sulking and hiding for weeks together, and we have been paying it such compliments these last days. ‘Blazing!’ We preferred to stay indoors this afternoon because it was ‘blazing.’ Soon we shall declare that it is impossible to stay in town, and shall fly away to the country. In a couple of weeks London will be emptied of every one who is not chained to a desk.”