The American girl is not easily overawed. The smallest touch of English assumption in her new acquaintances would have been enough, six weeks before, to make Lucy Foster open her dark eyes in astonishment or contempt. That is not the way in which women of her type understand life.
But to-day the frank forces of the girl's nature felt themselves harassed and crippled. She sat with downcast eyes, constrainedly listening and sometimes replying. No—it was very true. Mr. Manisty was not of her world. He had relations, friendships, affairs, infinitely remote from hers—none of which could mean anything to her. Whereas his cousin's links with him were the natural inevitable links of blood and class. He might be unsatisfactory or uncivil; but she had innumerable ways of recovering him, not to be understood even, by those outside.
When the two women returned to the salon, a kind of moral distance had established itself between them. Lucy was silent; Eleanor restless.
Alfredo brought the coffee. Mrs. Burgoyne looked at her watch as he retired.
'Half past one,' she said in a reflective voice. 'By now they have made all arrangements.'
'They will be back by tea-time?'
'Hardly,—but before dinner. Poor Aunt Pattie! She will be half dead.'
'Was she disturbed last night?' asked Lucy in a low voice.
'Just at the end. Mercifully she heard nothing till Alice was safe in her room.'
Then Eleanor's eyes dwelt broodingly on Lucy. She had never yet questioned the girl as to her experiences. Now she said with a certain abruptness—