Mr. Rodney stared upon her with a white face.
"You think I am mad and misinformed, as well as Lord Bernard?" she said, smiling. "Come, take me back."
Mr. Rodney took her, endeavouring to prevent his agony from appearing in colours that would be perceptible to his world. He could not have been entirely successful in this endeavour, for several Countesses remarked towards the end of the day that "really Mr. Rodney began to look very old."
Meanwhile Chloe was becoming reckless, as people do when they know that the Cinderella clock of time will shortly strike, and a transformation of rags and a pumpkin take the place of silken attire and gilt coach and horses. If the World paragraph were true, if Huskinson were really in England, her game was nearly up; her hour was at hand. This Ascot was the closing revel, and even this Ascot might be interrupted—might be cut off short for her. Good-bye then to ducal circles and the pomp of English society, bristling with ancient names. In fancy, she heard the tick-tick of the Cinderella clock; she heard the warning buzz that precedes its announcement of the dreary midnight. She saw the tall hat, the frock-coat and trousers vanish in a mist of tears, and with it how much ecstasy! And a devil-may-care mood took possession of her soul. She would squeeze the inmost essence out of these last flying golden moments; she would drink her little wine-cup to the lees. And so, when Mrs. Verulam and Mr. Rodney returned to the Enclosure, they found her the centre of a group of smart women, and watched with glittering eyes by the Lady Pearl, talking with amazing vivacity, laughing in a gaiety that was almost fierce, and making herself slightly more conspicuous than was altogether comme il faut. Mr. Rodney, governed by his feelings and so endowed with a distorted vision, considered that Van Adam was behaving outrageously—if he was Van Adam at all. And even Mrs. Verulam was a little surprised at Chloe's intense vivacity, and at the stream of audacious conversation that flowed so incessantly from her lips. When Chloe joined them, Mr. Rodney felt as if the eyes of the universe were directed upon the group they formed, and that even his proved and universally-accepted social standing and pre-eminent respectability could not save Mrs. Verulam from instant and eternal condemnation. He saw the small and attentive green eyes of Lady Jane Clinch observing them persistently beneath the shadow of her huge black parasol. He noted the plantation-song pantomime of the Banana Queen, who, attired in flame-coloured brocade, was being wooed by the impecunious members of the British aristocracy. And, worse than all, he perceived the indignant colour flood the large face of the Duchess of Southborough as she marked Chloe bend familiarly to Mrs. Verulam and pour into her really shell-like ear the tale of a dozen reckless and immoderate wagers. For Chloe had been betting wildly, and had lost a good deal of money. He was thankful indeed when the races were over, and the party drove home in the dust to Ribton Marches. On arriving, and strolling forth into the garden to rest and be thankful, they found various men dotted here and there—to the number of perhaps half a dozen—busily engaged among the Bun Emperor's plants and shrubs, or rolling and watering the lawns.
"Dear me, what an influx of gardeners!" said the Duchess. "It gives the grounds quite a crowded appearance. This must be a terribly expensive place to keep up."
Mr. Bush, who had cut off his roundabout for one day, turned his large eyes upon the busy labourers.
"If they keep on as they're a-keepin' now," he said, "there won't be a bloomin' flower within fifty mile this time to-morrow."
And he rolled towards the tea-tables. Miss Bindler put up her eye-glass and surveyed the scene. One man was apparently trying to pluck up a fine rose-tree by the roots; another was behaving with almost inhuman levity among some sunflowers; a third seemed to be having a stand-up fight with a laurustinus; a fourth was watering nothing at all with an enormous hose directed at a small cloud which was coming up from Sunningdale; and the remaining two were furiously trying to roll a tiny gravel walk with a roller, which managed them to such an extent that it seemed certain they would soon present the thin appearance of a film of flour fresh from the pressure of the rolling-pin. Away in the far distance the Bun Emperor's head-gardener stood weeping and wringing his horny hands beneath a copper beech, while Mr. Harrison was addressing to him what might be either oaths or words of comfort. It was impossible to discover which without the aid of a telescope. Miss Bindler dropped her eye-glass. It struck one of the huge buttons that sat about on the corduroy coat she wore and tinkled in a manly manner.