"I think it's doing quite well," he assented. "I wish I'd seen more of you that night, Agnes."
"There was such a crowd of people; we only put our heads into the box to congratulate you. Eric, I'd never seen your friend Lady Barbara at close quarters before; she's—bewitching."
Without daring to look at her face, Eric tried to discover from Agnes' tone whether she had chosen or blundered on such a word.
"She varies," he said judicially. "That night—yes, she was looking her best then. Sometimes … she's not very strong, you know.…"
He broke off, thinking of their last night together. They walked as far as Lashmar Common without speaking, though he knew that his silence betrayed him.
At luncheon Sir Francis proposed the health of his absent sons, and the afternoon passed in lazy talk round the library fire. The smell of the pine logs filled Eric with old memories; he slipped on to a foot-stool and sat with his head resting against his mother's knees, drowsy and a little wistful. He wished that he could go back to a time when life was less complicated and he could still confide in her.
"Tired, old boy?" asked Lady Lane, as she stroked his head.
"No. Only thinking. I can just remember our first Christmas here; there was a party and a Christmas tree, and I retired to the terrace and had a stand-up fight with some young friend, and our nurses came and separated us. A long time ago, mother! Before Sybil was born."
The girl roused at sound of her name.
"You're getting frightfully old, Ricky. It's time you married and settled down."