Chapter Seven.
Stolen Hours.
Driving home in the car Cassandra was conscious of contending emotions which carried her back to nursery days; pleasure, excitement, an underlying gnawing of guilt. So had she felt, stealthily playing in a corner with a toy purloined from a sister’s store, and yet, as she assured herself, there was no need for compunction. She had invited both Teresa and Dane; it was not her fault if the girl chose to refuse; not her fault if the man was ungallant enough to accept. Yet the feeling of guilt persisted. She looked curiously at Peignton to see if he shared her discomfort, but never did a man look more serene and unperturbed. Happy too! The thrill of pleasurable excitement which in her case was a real, though secondary sensation, was, to judge by appearance, all-pervading in his case. His eyes shone, the tired-out look had disappeared; his lips smiled.
“What a good thing a good car is! I used to swear by walking, but the time has come when I find it very agreeable to slip into a cushioned seat, and be whirled where I would go. There’s something mysteriously fatiguing about decorating churches; haven’t you found it so? Perhaps it is the necessity of keeping quiet and forbearing from expressing oneself as one otherwise would, when one is unexpectedly scratched or bruised. In any case, I am tired. And hungry! It is good of you to offer to feed me.”
Cassandra smiled with the comfortable assurance of one who takes perfect meals as a matter of course. There was no consciousness of cold mutton, no fear of a heavy pudding, to mar her enjoyment of an unexpected guest, but having never experienced a housekeeper’s anxiety, she failed to appreciate the relief.
“I hope they will give you something fit to eat!”
“And afterwards... Will you show me your garden?”
“I have no special garden. I do nothing myself. I’m always making up my mind to take over a little corner, but it takes a long time to make up my mind. I don’t want to dig and delve. I enjoy the flowers better when I get them without any trouble. It would be simply an effort to try to find an interest.—Do you believe in troubling to find an interest, when it doesn’t come naturally?”
“Yes,” Dane said simply, and Cassandra stared at him with a feeling of check. She had not expected that quiet “yes”; it carried with it a finality which put an end to argument.