And at last she came. Mrs. Penfold, it will easily be imagined, entered upon the scene, in a state of bewildered ravishment.
"She had never expected—she could not have believed—it was like a fairy-tale—a real fairy-tale—wasn't the house too beautiful—Mr. Melrose's taste!—and such things!" In the wake of this soft, gesticulating whirlwind, followed Lydia, waiting patiently with her bright and humorous look till her mother should give her the chance of a word. Her gray dress, and white hat, her little white scarf, a trifle old-fashioned, and the pansies at her belt seemed to Tatham's eager eyes the very perfection of dress. He watched her keenly as she came in; the kind look at Faversham; then the start—was it, of pity?—for his altered aspect, the friendly greeting for himself; and all so sweet, so detached, so composed. His heart sank, he could not have told why.
"I ought to have warned you of that hill!" she said, standing beside
Faversham, and looking down upon him.
"You couldn't know I was such a duffer!" laughed Faversham. "It wasn't me—it was the bike. At least, they tell me so. As for me, everything, from the moment I left you till I woke up here six weeks ago, is wiped out. Did you finish your sketch? Were the press notices good?"
She smiled. "Did you see what they were?"
"Certainly. I saw your name in one as I picked it out."
"I still sleep with it under my pillow—when I feel low," said Lydia. "It said the nicest things. And I sold my pictures."
"Magnificent!" said Faversham. "But of course you sold them."
"Oh, no, Mr. Faversham, not 'of course'!" cried Mrs. Penfold, turning round upon him. "You can't think how Lydia was envied! Hardly anybody sold. There were friends of hers exhibiting—and it was dreadful. The secretary said they had hardly ever had such a bad year—something to do with a bank breaking—or the influenza—or something. But Lydia, lucky girl, sold hers within the first week. And we don't know at all who bought them. The secretary said he was not to tell. There are many buyers, he told us, who won't give their names—for fear of being bothered afterward. As if Lydia would ever bother any one!"
The guilty Tatham sat with his cane between his knees twirling it, his eyes on the ground. No one noticed him.