“No use!” cried Peignton, laughing. “She’s caught the fever herself. No small player either. The first time I met her was on the golf links. She won’t have the usual plea of desertion, as we shall probably spend our spare time playing together.”
“Community of interests, eh?” The Squire made a wry face. “Very idyllic, no doubt, but I’m not keen on a wife as a partner at golf. Cassandra can’t bit a ball to save her life, and I’ve always thought it one of her chief virtues. Women are the deuce when they fancy themselves at games. I gave up tennis parties for that very reason. Never do more now than ask up three other fellows to make a four. Girls are all very well in their place. I like girls, but I’d choose a man every time when it comes to a game.”
Grizel cocked her head at him with a challenging air.
“What do you bet I don’t beat you hollow at croquet, before the clock strikes seven?”
“Nothing! Ain’t going to play.”
“Oh, yes, you are,” Grizel said coolly. “You’ve been amusing yourself all day; now you are going to amuse me for a change. Croquet is about the only game I can play, and I have a fancy that it would do you good to be beaten. Does anyone want any more tea? They can’t have it if they do, for there’s none left. Anyway, you’ve all had three cups.” She held out her arm in mocking fashion. “Come along, and be butchered!”
The Squire shrugged, and submitted.
“That’s all right, Mrs Beverley. Delighted. Never said I objected to other fellows’ wives...”
They moved off round the corner of the house; Martin glanced after them, yawned, and stretched his legs. In Grizel’s absence he became very conscious of his tired body, and the two hours which had still to elapse before dinner assumed formidable proportions. It entered his head to excuse himself and retire to his own room, for a read, followed by a leisurely bath, then he remembered his duties as host, and resigned himself to stay at his post, and his two companions, noticing his sigh and yawn, read his thoughts as a book, and waited in a tensity of suspense for his decision. Peignton was in no doubt as to his own feelings,—he longed with all his heart for the fellow to take himself off, and leave him to talk to Cassandra alone; Cassandra believed that she wished precisely the opposite, but to both came the same sharp pang of disappointment, as Martin took out his cigarette case, and settled himself in a lounge chair.
After a quarter of an hour’s casual conversation Cassandra rose, and entered the house. She felt too impatient to continue the three-sided conversation, but, inside the drawing-room, she lingered on pretence of rearranging the flowers in the tall green vases, while her ears strained to hear what was happening without. If Dane cared enough to follow, it would be so easy, so natural, to ask to be taken a walk of inspection round the gardens! Those minutes of waiting had been sufficient to prove the fallacy of her pretence, and she knew that she was hungering for the time when they should be alone together, when she could look into his eyes, and hear his voice speaking in the deep, full tones which had made music in her ears during the stolen days of convalescence. She had gone hungry for weeks, and for a moment it had seemed that she might be fed. If only Martin had obeyed his first impulse, and taken himself away! She stayed her hand, and stood motionless listening with strained ears. From the balcony without came the sound of a masculine voice, running on in a smooth, even flow. The feminine element being withdrawn, Martin had embarked on a serious discussion which sounded as if it might be prolonged to an interminable length. At that moment Cassandra hated Martin Beverley.