And this touch of self-accusation with regard to Beatrix was, though unsuspected by the two conspirators, about the most fortunate thing that could have happened to further Miss Forsyth’s silence. For it caused Rex, by a mistaken sort of loyalty to the girl who, he fancied, had appealed to his kindlier judgment, to measure his words about her, to be chary of repeating the warnings he had already hinted to Imogen. Not, perhaps, that she would now have believed them; they might, however, not improbably have made a barrier between herself and her first friend, Major Winchester, and thus prevented the success of Mabella’s plot.
In spite of Trixie’s manoeuvres, Imogen found herself at luncheon beside Florence. Beatrix, however, was just opposite, so that any sort of rapprochement between the young girl and her neighbour was impossible. Florence herself was not brave enough to dare the mocking glances of her younger sister’s eyes, and her well-meant attempts at conversation fell flat, while her somewhat constrained manner only added to Imogen’s prejudice.
“She speaks to me as if I were about two years old,” thought the girl. “Of course she is much, much older than I; but still, even Major Winchester, who is nearly as old as mamsey, I daresay, speaks to me as if I had some sense.”
And happening at the moment to glance down the long table, she caught his eye. He was looking towards her, in search of her, with a certain concern and anxiety which Imogen was at once conscious of. She felt herself blush a little, even as she responded to his inaudible inquiry with the tiniest nod and smile of reassurance.
“I’m all right, thank you,” they seemed to say. And, “How kind he is! How nice it is to feel that there is one person among all these strangers who cares a little for me already!” she thought with a little thrill, as she caught the smile on Rex’s face in return.
Some one else saw the smile and the blush, and it needed but a glance in the direction in which they had been bestowed for Trixie to interpret them. Florence, unfortunately, by this time despairing of making any way with the girl beside her, had allowed her thoughts to wander far from the present, and was paying but little attention to what passed, till rousing herself suddenly she began an animated conversation with the man on her other side, thus throwing Imogen altogether on the mercy of her left-hand neighbour, Oliver Helmont. He had not yet been introduced to her, but a word to Trixie on the opposite side had the desired effect, and in a minute or two Imogen began to feel considerably more at home than she could have believed possible.
There was no harm in Oliver, as the saying goes. He was a good-natured rattle, more or less selfish, but honest and well-meaning, and not without some faint capacity somewhere about him for a species of hero-worship. And though there were few to whom he would have owned it, the hero down at the bottom of his heart was his cousin Reginald. So when, encouraged by his pleasant genial face and manner, Imogen confided to him the history of the morning’s misadventures, they soon found themselves on common ground.
“Major Winchester was so kind,” said the girl, after relating Rex’s good offices. “We should have been there still, but for him.”
Oliver’s face beamed.
“Just like him,” he said. “He is awfully kind. Fact is,” here he lowered his voice to a confidential whisper, “I don’t think there’s another fellow like him, search the world over. It isn’t every one he takes to though, so a good many people call him a prig and a saint, and all that style of thing. My sisters now, though they’ve known him all their lives—naturally so, as he’s our cousin—they don’t get on with him, except Florence; she’s rather made an alliance with him lately, or he with her, since she’s been so down in the mouth, you know.”