He went off into a day-dream of his own, a troubled day-dream, poor fellow, as his day-dreams were apt to be at this time of his life; but his companions did not notice his adsorption, for one was listening rapturously, while the other entertained her with imaginary conversations supposed to take place between different members of the crowd by which they were surrounded. That she could hear no word of what was being said, was but an added stimulus to Miss Peggy’s inventive genius, and so aptly did her dialogues follow the expressions and gestures of the strangers that Eunice shook from head to foot in irrepressible enjoyment.
“Goodness, Clementina, here’s that impossible Mrs Jones! I thought we had avoided her so successfully. Must speak now, I suppose. There’s no way of dodging her. ‘Dear Mrs Jones, how do you do? Such ages since we met. Is this your daughter? Grown out of knowledge! It seems but the othah day she was a little girl in short frocks. Quite impossible, don’t you know, to associate you with a grown-up daughter! Sorry to hurry on, but really—so many friends!’ Oh, there’s Lord Algernon Fitznobody coming down that path! Don’t let him pass! Waggle your parasol, Clementina! Cough! Sneeze! Do something to make him see us! ‘Don’t you remember me, Lord Algernon? How quite too naughty of you! Mrs Ponsonby de Tomkins, whose purse you picked up in the railway station in Lausanne. I have heard so much of you since then, for my sister’s aunt’s cousin’s husband is quite an intimate friend of dear Lady Fitzroy—’ Well, really, Clementina, he need not have rushed away in such a hurry! He seemed very distrait. He was looking round for somebody else all the time. Now, see, he is hurrying off to meet her. Ah–h!”
The deep exclamation of understanding was uttered in the speaker’s natural voice, as, following the direction of the good lady’s glance, Peggy suddenly divined the reason of “Lord Algernon’s” pre-occupation. Rosalind Darcy was approaching, surrounded by the usual bevy of admirers, her parasol tilted over her shoulder, and her lips curved into a smile of artificial sweetness. It was easy to see that her affectation of interest in what was being said was of the thinnest possible description and Peggy wondered what could be the reason of her ill-humour, but only for a moment, for presently Rosalind’s eyes wandered to the bench under the trees, and in a flash the sunshine came back into her face.
“She was looking for Arthur! She thought he was not here!” Arthur’s sister said jealously to herself; and the next moment Rosalind was hurrying towards them, leaving the discarded admirers to digest their rebuff as best they might. Nothing could have been sweeter or more winsome than her greeting of her friends, but Arthur responded to her advances with a coldness which astonished his companions. They had not been present the night before, when Miss Darcy had found it convenient to ignore his presence, and to forget a promise given to him because a more distinguished partner had appeared on the scene. Arthur’s pride in himself was by no means of the overweening description affected by his small sister, but he had too much self-respect to accept a smile one day at the expense of a snub the next, and Rosalind was given to playing fast and loose with her friends. It was true, she invariably repented herself of her rudeness, and endeavoured to make a gracious atonement, but it was becoming more and more difficult to appease Arthur’s wounded dignity, and to-day she felt an unaccustomed thrill of nervousness at the sight of his grave, stern face.
“Arthur, come and walk wound with me!” she commanded with an unaccustomed note of timidity mingling with the imperious young voice. “I want to talk to you. Those widiculous men have been boring me to distwaction, and I want to hear about Yew Hedge. Take me into the wose garden, and tell me all about Yew Hedge.”
“Peggy can do that better than I, Rosalind. I have been down only for a few hours. We will all walk round together, and Peggy can give you the interesting details.”
He stepped to Eunice Rollo’s side as he spoke, and, addressing a remark so pointedly to her that it could not be answered by another, led the way forward in the direction indicated. Rosalind could have borne the rebuff more complacently if he had followed in the rear, when she could have played off her little airs and graces for his benefit, but to choose another girl before herself, and then to walk on ahead, without even troubling himself to see if she followed—this was too much for her composure. Her face clouded over, and though she made a valiant effort to preserve her composure, it was in vain, and she was glad to find an outlet for her irritation in pettish complainings.
“How I do detest garden-parties! Of all the senseless, dead-alive entertainments they are the worst. Evewy fwesh one is worse than the last.”
“Why don’t you stay away, then? The remedy is in your own hands,” retorted Peggy coolly; but at this Rosalind’s ill-humour broke out in another direction.
“Peggy Saville, I think it is vewy mean and unkind of you to wefuse to visit me when I asked you, and then to wush up from the countwee to stay with new fwiends who have not half the claim upon you that I have. If you would go to the Wollos’, why not to me?”