"Nice girl," he said carelessly; "but a fool."
"Ah, Denise! You did not lunch with Eva? She put you off an hour ago; I see."
Big Cyril paused as he passed his wife. Denise made sweetly-drawled apology to Aunt Grace.
"I see," said Sir Cyril, his big face set a little grimly; "and now, whither away, Denise? To drive—to the cloth show? Well—we meet at dinner."
"Yes—to drive;" but first Denise knew that she had meant to go home to spend an hour with Jerry in her boudoir. And now she was afraid; she faltered and flushed. Would not Aunt Grace drive? Esmé could come any day.
Aunt Grace, easily flattered, gravely believing the previous engagement, accepted willingly.
She quite understood how difficult it was to find time to receive visitors from the country. Engagements were sacred. The vicar had never forgiven her once because she forgot to go to tea to meet the bishop's wife, and the hot buns were overcooked waiting for her. Mrs Lemon made a speciality of hot buns. Grace Bullingham chattered on, delighted with her luncheon, her day in London; but Sir Cyril stood silent, a curious smile on his lips.
"You're coming, Cyrrie? Denise, isn't Cyrrie coming?"
"The electric limousine of the moment has only room for two—and an interloper," said Blakeney. "No, I'm not coming, Aunt Grace. I should be the interloper. But I'll meet you at four at the station, the car can take you there, and—"
Denise was still flustered; still talking nervously. She arranged to meet Esmé again; she fussed uneasily, afraid that Jerry might be openly impressive, that he might try to whisper his regret.