“I’m sorry, dear.” She put out her hand. “I hope the little change has done you good.”
For answer he bent down and touched her forehead with his lips. Then he held the door open for her to pass out.
“God bless you, dear,” said he.
She went up-stairs, feeling in a half-scared way that something, she knew not what, had happened, and she cried herself to sleep.
CHAPTER XXV
IT was a sullen evening in mid-August, following a breathless day and an angry sunset that had shed a copper-colored glow above a bank of cloud. The great windows of the drawing-room of the Channel House were flung open wide, and on the terrace beneath the starless heaven sat the little group of intimates, which now included the placid lady of the little Kilburn house. Walter Herold, who had returned from Switzerland tanned and strong, told his adventures to Sir Oliver and Dr. Ransome, while John and Stella, a little way apart, listened idly. Lady Blount and Miss Lindon murmured irrelevances concerning the curates of long ago and the present price of beef. They had many points at which the curves of their natures touched, such as mathematicians, with unique spasm of romance, call points of osculation.
But for the voices all was still. From below, at the base of the cliff, came the lazy lapping of the sea against the rocks. Outside the glow of light cast by the illuminated drawing-room the world was pitch black. The air grew more and more oppressive.
“I think there’s going to be thunder,” said Lady Blount.
“I hope not,” said Miss Lindon. “I know John thinks it foolish, but I’m terribly afraid of thunder.”
“So does Sir Oliver; but I don’t care. Whenever there’s a thunder-storm, I go up to my room and put my head under the bedclothes until it’s over.”