Davidge watched Marie Louise studying the somber officer. He was a bit jealous, shamed by his own civilian clothes. Suddenly Marie Louise’s smile at Polly’s chatter stopped short, shriveled, then returned to her face with a look of effort. Her muscles seemed to be determined that her lips should not droop.
Davidge heard the butler announce:
“Lady Clifton-Wyatt and General Sir Hector Havendish.”
Davidge wondered which of the two names could have so terrified Marie Louise. Naturally he supposed that it was the man’s. He turned to study the officer in his British uniform. He saw a tall, loose-jointed, jovial man of horsy look and carriage, and no hint of mystery––one would say an intolerance of mystery.
Lady Clifton-Wyatt was equally amiable. She laughed and wrung the hands of Mrs. Prothero. They were like two school-girls met in another century.
Davidge noted that Marie Louise turned her back and listened with extraordinary interest to Major Widdicombe’s old story about an Irishman who did or said something or other. Davidge heard Mrs. Prothero say to Lady Clifton-Wyatt, with all the joy in the world:
“Who do you suppose is here but our Marie Louise?”
“Our Marie Louise?” Lady Clifton-Wyatt echoed, with a slight chill.
“Yes, Marie Louise Webling. It was at her house that I met you. Where has the child got to? There she is.”
Without raising her voice she focused it between Marie Louise’s shoulder-blades.