“How nice of you!” she said. “How very nice of you to put it like that!”
But, strange to say, though he smiled indulgently, a shadow had crept across Horace Littlewood’s face at her eager words.
“Perhaps,” he said, “we had better go back to the drawing-room,” and he glanced round to see what the rest of the party was about. Three had already left the room, Lady Leila and Mr Charlemont escorted by Miss Littlewood, who had come to the rescue on finding them mutually boring each other, Mr Bryan following them with a couple of volumes under his arm, which he meant to study at leisure. There remained Frances and Mr Morion, who were staring out through the unshuttered door-window into the blackness of the Laurel Walk, as if fascinated. And when Horace suddenly addressed her, he was startled as Frances turned to see that her face had grown strangely pale. Or was this only his fancy?
“There is something uncanny about the place,” he thought to himself. “Can they have seen anything? I shall find out afterwards from Ryder.”
For evidently, if his suspicion were true, this was not the moment for satisfying it, as Ryder Morion hurried forward at once.
“Yes,” he said, “we had better return to the drawing-room.” And somewhat to his surprise, Betty started forward at his words.
“It is getting chilly,” she said, addressing him directly. “Do let us go,” on which he naturally accompanied her; thus leaving Horace and Frances for a moment or two in the rear.
“Wasn’t Madeleine saying something about a walk to Scaling Harbour to-morrow?” began the former in a low and rather hurried tone. “If so, may I join you in it, Miss Morion? I should be glad of the chance of a talk with you.”
Frances lifted her grave eyes to his face.
“Certainly,” she said, “we quite mean to go, if it is fine.”