“Well—it’s a big bribe!” said Mrs Trevor, laughing. “Yes, by all means ask her to come. I shall be very glad to welcome her any Sunday, if she seems to enjoy coming.”
“Oh, she won’t do that. She hasn’t any enjoying power left. It’s all taught out of her. I don’t believe she could feel anything if she tried,” quoth Miss Betty in her wisdom, and was fated to see the folly of her words.
Mrs Trevor was pouring out tea in the drawing-room at a little table set almost beneath the shadow of Pam’s branching palm. Miss Beveridge was sitting bolt upright in an easy-chair, looking as if she were accustomed to be uncomfortable, and uncomfortable she was determined to be, in spite of all conspiracies to the contrary. She wore a severe black dress, and her iron-grey hair was brushed back from her face with almost painful neatness. Betty looked from one to the other as she handed round cakes and scones, and wondered if her mother was really years and years younger than Miss Beveridge, or if she only looked it because she was pretty and dainty, and happy at heart. Miss Beveridge had beautiful features, but the listless gloom of her expression spoiled what beauty she might still have possessed. Nan’s persistent efforts had to some extent thawed the icy barrier of reserve, but in a strange atmosphere it seemed to have frozen even harder than before, so that Mrs Trevor was devoutly thankful for the arrival of the tea-tray, and wondered no more at Betty’s unwillingness to tackle this silent visitor.
And then the door opened, and Jack’s cheery voice was heard.
“Hallo, mother, here’s a friend come to tea!” he announced, and the next moment the whole atmosphere of the room was changed, as the General’s big form hobbled forward, the big red face smiled its big kind smile, and the big voice boomed out a thunderous greeting.
“Afternoon, madam! Afternoon, Lady Betty! This boy tempted me, and I fell. What’s this I hear about hot muffins and apricot jam? When I was a nipper there was no boy in the length of Ireland that could beat Terence Digby at a muffin struggle. Where’s my friend Jill? Plain Jill! Eh, what? No, my dear—I said to her—that, at least, you never can be. That’s taken out of your power! Where’s Miss Pussy Pam? I can’t see you all in this half light. Very picturesque for young eyes, madam, but when you get old like me you’ll be thankful for electricity. Eh! Who’s this?”
He had caught a glimpse of the figure in the easy-chair, and, wheeling suddenly round, stared full at it. Stared, and grew silent. And Miss Beveridge stared back, and her eyes looked big, big, and oh! So dark and deep. And her lips worked as if she were going to speak, and a red spot came out on each cheek, and she was not Miss Beveridge any longer, but someone whom the onlookers had never seen before.
The General’s figure seemed to stiffen, his bent shoulders straightened and broadened out. He stretched out his right hand.
“Alice!” he said, and his voice was soft and breathless. One could hardly imagine it could be General Digby’s voice. “Alice! Is that you?”
She put her hand in his, and nodded dumbly. Mrs Trevor rattled her teacups, questioned Jack volubly as to his walk—frowning at Betty to second her efforts, and so leave the two old friends undisturbed; but it was beyond girl nature to resist sly peeps, and if one’s ears were made sharp by nature, how could one help hearing odd scraps of conversation?