Geoffrey Hilliard’s glance of comprehension had in it more of weariness than elation. Pixie noting the fact, felt a rising of irritation, and mentally dubbed him ungracious and unreasonable, as Esmeralda had done before her. Both failed to appreciate the fact that sudden spasms of energy were by no means an innovation in the family history, and what the tired man was really longing for was that ordered peace and tranquillity which form the English idea of home. He made no further objections, however, and Joan threw herself whole-heartedly into her preparations, determined on a success which must win approval as by a tour de force.
The three days following were far from peaceful, but if the master of the house kept aloof from the stir and bustle, his guests threw themselves into it with every appearance of enjoyment. Strains of music sounded from the drawing-room and mingled with the tap-tapping of hammers from an upper room where realistic scenery was being manufactured under Joan’s able supervision. The new system of thoroughness demanded, moreover, that the stored-up cases should be opened, and the contents unpacked, dusted, and re-priced, a work in itself of many hours.
The four guests started thereon with equal vigour, but Honor took an early opportunity of slipping away. She was tired, she had a headache, she must finish a book, there were half a dozen stock excuses, each one of which seemed to demand an instant adjournment to the garden. She made the announcement in a high, clear drawl and sailed out of the room without leaving time for protest. Whereupon Robert Carr attacked the work on hand with feverish zeal, worked like a nigger for five or ten minutes by the clock, and finally bolted out of the door, without, in his case, going through the form of an excuse. Then the two workers who were left looked out of the window and beheld the truants seated at extreme ends of a garden seat, hardly speaking to each other, looking on the most stiff and formal of terms.
Stanor laughed at the sight, but Pixie’s practical mind could not reconcile itself to such contradictory behaviour.
“Where’s the sense of it?” she asked. “Where’s the fun? To play truant to sit on a bench and sulk! Wouldn’t it be far more fun, now, to work up here with nice cheerful people like yourself and—me?”
But Stanor knew better.
“Not a bit of it,” he returned. “They’d rather quarrel by themselves all day long than be happy with outsiders, even such fascinating people as ourselves. It’s a symptom of the disease. Of course, you have grasped the fact that they are suffering from a disease?”
“I have. I can use my eyes. But why?” cried Pixie, rounding on him with sudden energy, “why, will you tell me, can’t they be happy and comfortable and get engaged and be done with it? What’s the sense of pretending one thing when you mean another, and sulking and quarrelling when you might—”
“Quite so,” assented Stanor, laughing. “Odd, isn’t it; but they will, you know. Never any knowing what they will do when it takes them like that. Besides, in this case there are complications. Miss Ward has pots of money, and poor old Carr has nothing but what he makes. He’ll get on all right—a fellow with that chin is bound to get on—but it takes time, and meantime it’s a bit of an impasse. A fellow doesn’t mind his wife having some money—it’s a good thing for her as well as for himself—but when it comes to a pile like that—well, if he has any self-respect, he simply can’t do it!”
“If I had a pile, I’d expect my lover to accept it from me as gladly as I’d take it from him. If he didn’t, I should feel he didn’t love me enough.”