"Oh, yes—I told him—I mentioned it this afternoon," said Meggison hastily. "I found he was very deeply interested in dogs."
Gilbert saw that it was impossible to talk to the girl just then; he knew that Meggison at least was watching every gesture and listening to every word. He contented himself with looking at the girl; noting little subtle differences in her, and seeing that the little unnatural sharpness that had belonged to her scheming plotting life had already worn away and left her softened. Her hair was differently and more generously arranged; there was a refinement and a delicacy about her, greater even than that which had at first singled her out in his eyes in Arcadia Street. And it was pleasant, too, sitting there, to have her eyes turned occasionally in his direction, and always to see in their depths that fine smile of comradeship and friendliness. As the meal progressed he found himself weighing her against the others; noting their coarseness and their awkwardness and their airs and attitudes; and seeing her so different that she might not have belonged to them at all. Of all that strange assortment in the house at Fiddler's Green she was the one who seemed properly to belong there.
They were getting to the end of the meal when a servant entered and spoke a little diffidently to Bessie, after a glance at old Meggison. "Mr. Quarle is here, Miss."
Bessie sprang to her feet at once. "Oh, please bring him in," she exclaimed; "how delightful that he should have come to-night. You know Mr. Quarle, Mr. Byfield?" she added.
"Oh, yes—I know him quite well," said Gilbert.
"Quarle has nothing to do with us now; he's an unpleasant reminder of things I endeavour to forget," said Meggison peevishly. "Second visit, too; what's he think he's going to get out of us? . . . ah!—my dear Quarle—delighted to see you," he broke off hurriedly as Simon came into the room, looking sharply about him. "I was just saying to my daughter Bessie how very charming . . . a place for Mr. Quarle there; what the devil are you standing staring for; don't you know your duties?"
Simon Quarle cocked an eyebrow comically at sight of Byfield, and then, with a nod to the others, came round the table, and shook hands with Bessie. "I'll find room here, thank you," he said, as he pulled up a chair beside the girl—"no one need disturb themselves on my account. Well—and how's the little girl getting on?" he asked, taking no notice of anyone else.
Gilbert Byfield watched him, wondering a little what the object of this visit might be. He noted the old man's tenderness for the girl—the change in his tones when he spoke to her; he saw also, or thought he saw, a new grimness about the lines of his mouth. He knew in his own mind that something must be settled this night; felt certain that with this man in the house the bubble must be pricked, and poor Bessie be shown in a moment this new and horrible game of make-believe in which she had really had no part. Looking at the happy face of the girl, he seemed more than ever to separate her from those who had plotted, with her for a shield, and who had not hesitated to bite the hand that fed them.
"You didn't let us know you were coming," hinted Daniel Meggison.
"I didn't think it necessary," retorted Quarle, with a momentary glance at him. "Now I beg that just as soon as you have finished—all of you—you will go away and leave me with my young hostess," he added. "I've a great deal to say to Bessie—and I'm desperately hungry—and I know that I'm very late. No ceremony, I beg."