'One must think of other people, always and under all circumstances,' she had said to him when her trouble was fresh upon her, and he knew that she was only acting up to her words.
She would play because other people wished to play, not because her heart was in it. During his brief visits to Woodcote they were always together, and more than once he told himself that he could see a great change in her. She had at times a tired, burdened look, as though weary thoughts were habitual to her. But she never spoke to him of Cyril, or questioned him in any way. He would tell her unasked about Mollie, and now and then he would drop a word casually about Cyril.
'I met Blake the other day,' he would say. 'I think he looks better, though he says the hot weather tries him; he is getting on with his work, and appears to like it.' Or another time: 'I dined with Unwin last week; he and Blake seem to hit it off famously. Unwin says he has far more discrimination and intelligence than other young men of his age, and that for steadiness and application he might be fifty. But he thinks he ought to take more exercise; his hard work and the heat together are making him thin.'
Audrey remembered this speech of Michael's, as, a month later on, she sat on the Whitby sands. She had yielded to Geraldine's persuasion to accompany them to the seaside. Dr. Ross and his wife were paying visits in Cumberland, Michael was in North Wales with an artist friend, and Audrey had accepted her sister's invitation very willingly.
Both Percival and Geraldine were very kind to her, she thought. They let her wander about alone and do as she liked, and they were always ready to plan something for her enjoyment—a drive or a sail, or a day on the moors. Audrey liked being with them, and baby Leonard was more fascinating than ever; yet it may be doubted if she would not have been happier at Rutherford. The absence of all duties, of any settled employment, tried her. A holiday, to be thoroughly enjoyed, must be attended with a disengaged mind, and with a certain freedom from worry; and this was not possible with Audrey. She would talk to her sister cheerfully, or play with Leonard, and she was an intelligent companion for Mr. Harcourt when they took long walks together; but in her moments of solitude, when she roamed alone over the yellow sands with the fresh salt wind blowing in her face, her thoughts would be sad enough as she thought of Cyril in his hot London lodgings.
'Oh, my darling, if you could only be with me and feel this wind!' she would think, with a great rush of pity and tenderness; 'if I could only take your place a little and bear things for you!' and the sense that she could do nothing for him would lie like a load on her heart.
'I think Audrey is getting over her trouble,' Geraldine said one day to her husband. 'Baby is doing her good; and really, when she is playing with him she seems just like her dear old self.'
'Of course she will get over it,' returned Mr. Harcourt impatiently; 'all girls do. I tell you what, Jerry: when we get back to Hillside we will have Graham down to stop with us.'
'Oh, did you mean Lionel Graham all the time?' returned Geraldine, opening her eyes very widely. 'Is he the man you always wanted for Audrey? He is nice, of course—all the Grahams are nice—but he is dreadfully ugly.'
'Nonsense, my love! Graham ugly, with that fine head of his! I tell you the girl is lucky who gets such a clever fellow. I recollect he was rather struck with her last spring. We will have him down and see if they can take to each other.'