It was smoothly done, but he had seen her shy at his unheralded question, as if he had flicked a whip. Simon had not come to meet him; Simon had not been at Latchetts to greet him; Simon, it was to be deduced, was being difficult.
Before he could pursue the subject she took the initiative from him.
"You can have the nursery bathroom all to yourself, but do go slow on the hot water, will you? Fuel is a dreadful problem. Now wash and come down at once. The Pecks sent over some of the Rectory sherry."
"Aren't they coming to lunch?"
"No, they're coming to dinner to-night. Lunch is for family only."
She watched him turn to the fourth door, which he knew to be the bathroom of the nursery wing, and went away looking comforted. He knew why she was comforted: because he had known his way about the house. And he felt guilty and ill at ease. Fooling Mr. Sandal-with a K.C. sitting opposite you and gimletting holes in you with cynical Irish eyes-had been one thing; fooling Mr. Sandal had been fun. But fooling Bee Ashby was another thing altogether.
He washed absentmindedly, turning the soap in his hands with his eyes on the line of the down. There was the turf he had wanted to ride on; the turf he had sold his soul for. Presently he would get a horse and go up there and ride in the quiet, away from human relationships and this fantastic game of human poker, and up there it would once more seem right and worth while.
He went back to his room and found a brassy blonde in tight flowered rayon tweaking the wallflower in the bowl on the window-sill.
"Hullo," said the blonde. "Welcome home, and all that."
"Thanks," Brat said. Was this someone that he should know? Surely not!