It was her reward—she was satisfied.
Jimmie Gore Helmsley's black eyes did not smile at a pair of intruders. He was taking Sybil out in a punt after lunch, with a tea-basket for a picnic. He strolled off now with a last low word to Sybil. "Come to the rose garden. I'll wait there. Bother these people!"
Joan Blacker did not fail in her good deed. She said some simple things to Sybil—told her quietly that the Bungalow was not fit for her; that if her mother realized, or heard, it might stop liberty for evermore.
"To go back to London," cried Sybil, "to the house in Lancaster Gate, to the dreariness of a dull dinner there. Navotsky was to dance to-night. Besides—Mrs Bellew—"
"The servants may tell her that there is a vacant room," said Joan, equably, "otherwise she will not know. And for to-night—we'll take you out somewhere if you like, in London. I warn you your mother does not understand."
When Gore Helmsley, attractive to those who admired him in his flannels, strolled back to look for a Sybil who came not, he only saw the dust of a motor on the road at the back of the house.
"Miss Chauntsey has gone back to London," said Esmé. "Her mother, I think, telephoned."
Gore Helmsley nodded carelessly. But Esmé, looking drearily out across the gardens, trying hard not to think, had made a bitter enemy.
She was rung up by Denise Blakeney later.
"Yes. Cyril leaves next week. I tell you, Esmé, I am afraid—afraid of when he comes back. Be careful of cross lines. No one will know. Dismiss your maid at once. Come to me here and write to her if you think it best."