As Claudia went back to Wynnstay that night she wondered what she could tell Gilbert about the mistake she had made. Was it necessary to go up and gratuitously inform him that Colin was not engaged to Pat? She had made a blunder. Ought she to correct a wrong impression? Was it a wrong impression on anyone but herself? Gilbert’s attitude had certainly been one of quiet scepticism.
The sun was setting, and the earth was very peaceful and restful after the hot day, as she walked up the long approach to the house. Now she was alone, she ought to be able to think out why Pat’s unexpected secret had moved her so strangely. But somehow, she had no want to probe into her feelings to-night. She only knew she felt happier than she had done for a long time. But then, Pat was a cheering person, she would have enlivened a graveyard. She hummed a little song as she walked, the drowsy birds twittering a half-hearted accompaniment.
Pat and Colin came to lunch with them next day, for though Pat had made a hideous grimace at the prospect, she had ultimately agreed that she had better pretend to be a well-behaved person. She had urged Claudia to go with her to the station to meet Colin, but her sister had for some reason undefined, even to herself, pleaded the heat and the distance. Besides, was he not really coming down to see Pat? Not in a lover-like way, but still to see her. Was he? Was he?
She took out his last letter from Manchester. Somehow it seemed to read differently from the day she had received it.
“When are we going to forgather?” it ran. “Letters are always so inadequate. I have crowds of things to tell you, and why don’t you write more about yourself? Your account of life at Wynnstay was most amusing. I could picture the deadly regularity of its clockwork, but what about the alien in its midst? Has she become a carefully adjusted machine too? I know what it must be to live with the Curreys day after day, and I wish I could help you in some way. I am sending you down a couple of books I think you will like, and a newspaper-cutting in which you will see I am described as an earnest, middle-aged man! Rather a blow, that! I wonder if I do impress people that way? Of course, it was probably written by some reporter at the back of the hall, but—’tis a horrid thought. Earnest! Middle-aged! I’ve still got two thirties to spare....”
At lunch—or, as Sir John would insist on everyone calling it, luncheon—she did not sit next to him or have an opportunity for any private conversation. She had to be content with a long look and a smile. The vicar and his wife always dined with them on Sunday, and there were two or three other people, quite uninteresting, but very chatty. Claudia wondered vaguely why uninteresting people generally are chatty.
It was not until nearly four that Claudia found herself free to talk to Colin, and she had been sitting so long that she jumped to her feet as the vicaress was lost to sight.
“Let’s go for a little stroll before tea. Colin, do you know the view from the windmill? It’s rather jolly. Come and see it. Get up, Pat.”
“No, mum, it’s too nerve-racking looking after Socrates. Now he’s chained to the tree I don’t want to disturb him. No, go thou to the view. Peradventure thy servant will slumber a little. Those beastly ducks and a perfectly abominable creature called a guinea-fowl wouldn’t let me sleep this morning, and the hardness of the bed wouldn’t let me sleep last night. These facts, combined with an English Sunday lunch (I beg his pardon—eon) make me what writers call somnolent. Go away and leave me to somnol.”