Mollie shook her head tragically.
“Not a soul! Mrs Wolff met us and sent us straight up to our room. If it had not been for you, the new gloves would have been wasted on the desert air; but now we can console ourselves that our trouble was of some use, after all, since at least half the party had the benefit. Were you also despatched straight upstairs?”
“I was. Afterwards, Druce and I had tea in the billiard-room, and went on to join you in the library. It has been a somewhat trying opportunity; I sympathised with your conversational efforts before dinner.”
Mollie’s brows went up at this, and she made a sceptical little grimace.
“That is not my idea of sympathy! You stood by and watched me flounder without making a effort to help. It’s not at all pleasant to be snubbed before a roomful of strangers. You might easily have remarked that it was a fine day, or that the train was punctual. Anything is better than a ghastly silence.”
“But, you see, I had had my innings before you arrived. As a matter of fact I had introduced those very subjects, and added some original remarks on the beauty of the scenery. I fared no better than you, so my fellow-feeling made me sympathise with you, though I had no spirit to try again.”
Mollie laughed under her breath, the influence of her surroundings instinctively subduing the usual merry trill. This Mr Melland was an unexpectedly pleasant companion, now that his former gloom and irritability of manner had disappeared. It was as if a dreaded prospect had been removed, and he was luxuriating in recovered freedom. Mollie wondered what the change of circumstances could be; time, no doubt, would show; and, when they had reached a greater degree of intimacy, she would tease him about his sudden change of front, and treat him to a pantomimic imitation of his former gloomy frowns. The prospect pleased her, and she laughed again, showing the pretty dimples in her cheek, while Jack Melland looked at her inquiringly.
“What’s the joke? May I hear it?”
“Oh, nothing—I was just imagining! All sorts of things fly through one’s head, especially to-day, when we really are in an exciting position. At home my sister and I have a very quiet time, and we get most of our excitement in dreams. We imagine things until they are almost real. Don’t you know the feeling?”
“No!” cried Mr Melland bluntly. His brows were arched, his nostrils curved with the old look of scornful superiority. “I have no experience of the kind, and I don’t want to have. It’s a dangerous habit. We have to live among realities, and very commonplace realities, for the most part; and it unfits one for work to be dreaming of impossibilities.”