Chapter Ten.
Geoffrey was lounging about in the hall as the two girls descended the wide staircase. His attitude gave the impression that he had been impatiently awaiting their advent, and, as he took in Elma’s changed looks in one comprehensive sweep, his eyes brightened with an expression before which her lids drooped in embarrassment. He came forward eagerly to lead the way into the drawing-room, where Madame sat reading by an open window, and a sofa had been pulled forward and banked with cushions in readiness for the invalid. She smiled a welcome as the little procession entered the room, and looked on with an amused scrutiny while Cornelia shook out the cushions, skilfully altering their position so that the blue brocade should form the background for Elma’s fair head. She did not attempt to rise, but her words were kindly enough, if a trifle patronising.
“Well, dear, and how are you now after your rest? We must take care of you, and not let you get overtired. Sure you are comfortable? You look too sweet in that gown! I shall never have the heart to wear it after you. Isn’t it wicked that a woman is obliged to live on after her complexion has faded? I could bear any affliction better than watching myself growing uglier every day. ... I should have a little pillow tucked into your back. ... Sure you won’t feel the draught? That’s right! And you really must leave us, Miss Briskett? Couldn’t possibly stay to dinner? I suppose it would be unkind! The dog-cart is waiting for you. I told them to have it round by seven. Geoffrey will drive you home, of course. After your adventure this afternoon we should not be happy to leave you to a groom. He’ll see you safely to the door, and report to us on your safe arrival.”
Geoffrey’s face clouded involuntarily. He had mapped out a much more interesting programme for himself, deciding to slip upstairs and dress for dinner so early that he should be able to descend the moment that his mother was securely shut into her own room. Madame’s evening toilette was a matter of three-quarters of an hour at least, during which time he would have Elma all to himself—to speak to, to look at, to make her look at him. Lovely creature! He had not realised how beautiful she was, and so sweet, and gentle, and shy. What a marvel to meet a shy girl in these days of loud-voiced, smoking, tailor-made women! A man may appreciate the society of a twentieth-century damsel whom he designates as a “rattling good sort,” but he wants a womanly woman for his wife. Elma was womanliness personified—a sweet pink-and-white, softly-curved creature, whose eyes regarded the masculine creature with an unspoken tribute of homage. “You are so big!” they seemed to say; “I am so little! Oh, please be kind to me!” Inspired by that look, Geoffrey was capable of fighting dragons on her behalf!
And now he was consigned to drive home a tiresome American girl, who was remarkably well able to take care of herself! Mentally he fumed; outwardly, being a man of the world, he smiled, and murmured “Delighted!” with an imitation of enthusiasm which won Cornelia’s admiration.
“One to you, Mr Greville! You played up real well,” was the mental comment, as she dropped a kiss on Elma’s brow and listened to her anxious messages.
“Tell mother not to be anxious. Tell her I’m not really ill—only silly and nervous. Tell her I shall soon be well—”
“That’s all right, my dear. I’ll cool her fevered brow. ... Your mother’ll be a circumstance compared with Aunt Soph! I’ll have to promise never to look at a horse again while I’m in this country.” She turned towards Mrs Greville with easy self-possession.
“It’s real good of you to send me back, and take such care of us both. Good-afternoon. So pleased to have met you!”
Madame extended her thin, ringed hand, laughing softly the while. As she had said, she loved to be amused, and this American girl was quite too ridiculously audacious! Actually one might have supposed that she believed herself to be speaking to an equal!