Chapter Three.
At the Dinner-Table.
“Not very far,” said Celia, smiling, and colouring a little. “I was very much entertained by watching all the people round the table, and perhaps I was thinking mostly of poor old Len.”
Eric looked across in young Maryon’s direction.
“Why do you say ‘poor old Len’?” he inquired. “I think he’s quite happy. Mrs Fancourt seems to be drawing him out beautifully.”
Celia glanced at her companion doubtfully.
“Do you really think so?” she asked, “or are you saying it to—to draw me out?”
“I really think so, and I don’t need to draw you out,” he replied. “I know exactly what you mean about Lennox, and—you needn’t pity him. It will be all right.”
“Oh, I am afraid not,” said Celia. “I’m afraid it will never come right. I didn’t know you knew about it, but as you do—no,” and her voice dropped almost to a whisper, “Winifred will never care for him. I see it more and more, and now she is thinking all sorts of things—quite differently, you know.”