But the misgiving was there. Had she been a woman of less breeding and self-control she could scarcely have hidden her uneasiness. Even as it was, she did so less completely than she imagined, or else Frances herself was all but morbidly acute to-night, for as Mrs Littlewood moved to her with some polite commonplace, the girl felt that the courtesy but overlay increasing coldness and disapproval.
“She has never really liked me,” thought she, “and now she is on the way to less negative sentiments, I fear.” Nor was this belief in any way softened by the hostess’ manner when the time came for saying good-night—the difference between her kindly, all but affectionate tone to Betty and the chilly though irreproachably courteous farewell to herself was so marked.
And it deepened the impression of Horace’s words. “His mother is afraid of it,” said Frances to herself; “I can feel that she is.”
She was glad that he had kept away from her during the rest of the evening, talking more to the two younger girls, Eira and Miss Charlemont, with whom Betty had taken refuge.
Altogether, the sister’s well-balanced mind had good need of its practised self-restraint that evening. And during the drive home, short as it was, it was all she could do to reply in an ordinary way to the comments on her family’s unwonted piece of dissipation, which not unnaturally came to be expressed.
It had left a favourable impression on her father and mother; thus much Frances was satisfied to see. Beyond this she felt incapable of further discussion.
“I am a little tired, dears,” she said to her sisters as they were making their way upstairs. “Don’t let us talk over anything till the morning.” And, though with a little disappointment, Betty and Eira yielded at once to her wish.
“Frances is, don’t you think, a little strange, not quite like herself?” said Betty, when she and Eira were alone in their room. “She might have told us a little about the dinner, who took her in, and all that. We were so pleased to make her look so nice,” and she gave a little sigh.
“You are rather stupid, Betty,” was the reply. “Things couldn’t be better. Even her wanting not to talk to-night.”
“Talking” was easy to avoid, not so thinking. Frances felt, with a strange sensation of excitement, as if she were on the verge of some great change or changes in life; almost, as it were, on the brink of some discovery. And this was not solely owing to her scarcely avowed anticipation of distinct intention as regarded herself on the part of Horace Littlewood. He had not been mistaken as to the startled, strange expression on Miss Morion’s face at the moment of his suggestion that they should leave the library, which had caused her to turn somewhat suddenly from the window overlooking the Laurel Walk. She had seen, or at least believed that she had seen, something mysterious and inexplicable, and, what was more, she knew that her companion, Ryder Morion, had seen it too.