"I looked in for a moment," I said. "Now I must get home, though."
"I'll give you a lift," Grayle volunteered.
Mrs. O'Rane looked from one to the other of us, and her eyes and mouth hardened in an expression of pique.
"My society seems rather at a discount to-night," she observed.
"You'll find Beresford waiting for you," I said. "I've been talking to him, but I've got to get home now."
She turned to Grayle, and I will swear that she was watching to see if Beresford's name was a challenge.
"I must get home, too," was all that he would say. "I shall see you to-morrow."
"Oh, I meant to tell you. I can't come to-morrow," she answered with easy gravity, as though I had not heard every syllable of her earlier conversation. "Well, if you won't come in, I'll say good-night. Thanks for a most delightful evening."
Grayle and I drove in silence for half of the way. Then he asked me abruptly how I had got on in America.
For some weeks I continued to attend to my own work uninterrupted by the O'Ranes, but towards the end of the Easter term I had to make my way to Melton for the Governors' meeting. A note from O'Rane invited me to call before going back to London, and at the end of our business I invaded his rooms to find him seated, as ever, cross-legged on the floor with his head thrown back, lips parted and eyes seemingly fixed on the ceiling or on something beyond it. The room was crowded with what I can only call a cluster of boys sprawling on chairs and tables or precariously perched with linked arms on the broad mantel-piece. Some were conventionally dressed, some were in flannels, some in uniform; the majority, however, preferred a motley of khaki breeches, puttees and vivid blazers. It was the end of a field day, and a few of O'Rane's friends had dropped in to talk with him. After some moments it occurred to the boy nearest the door to ask if I wished to speak to Mr. O'Rane, and on that, to my regret, the seminar dissolved.