“Certainly,” said Beauchamp. “We shall be delighted to join you.”
And “Thank you—you are very, very kind,” said Eugenia again.
The tone in which the simple words were uttered was almost girlishly cordial, yet, somehow, Lady Hereward did not feel satisfied. “Her manner is a little peculiar,” she thought to herself, as she drove back again to Stebbing-le-Bray, “though at first she seemed so frank. I hope my invitation did not really interfere with anything. Could it be shyness that made her not want to come? How very lovely her eyes are! I wonder if my Alice’s eyes would have looked like that—they were brown. Alice would not have been so pretty. And, dear me, by this time she might have had a daughter as old as that child! Ah, my little Alice!”
When Lady Hereward had gone, Eugenia sat still for a moment or two, then rose and left the room. In the hall she met her husband.
“Where are you going?” he said. “Come in here for a minute,” opening the door of his study, beside which they were standing. She followed him, but did not sit down. “Tell me,” he went on, “how do you like the old lady?”
“Very much,” replied Eugenia; then turned again, as if eager to go.
“What are you in such a hurry about? Can’t you wait a minute?” he said, impatiently. “Where are you going?”
“To write to Sydney, of course, to put off their visit,” she answered, her lips quivering. “I must do it at once.”
“Confound Sydney!” he broke out, rudely. “Your temper, Eugenia, is enough to provoke a saint. Wait an instant—do be reasonable—why can’t you propose to Sydney to—”
But he had gone too far. Eugenia turned and looked at him for a moment with the unlovely light of angry indignation in her eyes; then left the room quietly.