‘I told Grant about the coffee two minutes ago, dear,’ Lady Forsyth answered, smiling; but her eyes dwelt a little anxiously on the silhouetted view of her son’s profile, as he set a match to his cigarette. The straight, outstanding nose and square chin vividly recalled his dead father. But the imaginative brow was of her bestowing, and a splash of light on his hair showed the reddish chestnut tint of her own people: the tint she loved.
‘Come along, children,’ she added, including in that category four out of her five guests—two girls, unrelated to herself, Ralph Melrose, a Gurkha subaltern, and Maurice Lenox, an artist friend of Mark’s.
Keith Macnair, professor of philosophy—his rugged face lined with thought, his dark hair lightly frosted at the temples—was the only genuine grown-up of her small house-party. A connection of her own, and devoted to both mother and son, he was so evenly placed between them in the matter of age that he could play elder brother to Mark or younger brother to Lady Forsyth as occasion required. And, whenever professional claims permitted, occasion usually did require his presence, in some capacity, either at Wynchcombe Friars or Inveraig. Between times, he lived and lectured and wrote philosophical books in Edinburgh, having been a Fellow of the University since his graduate days: and never, if he could help it, did he fail to spend most of the long vacation at Inveraig.
When the party rose from the table he joined Mark in the window: and as the two girls stood back to let Lady Forsyth pass out, she slipped an arm round each. Her love of youth and young things seemed to deepen with her own advancing years. But she had her preferences; and it was the arm round Sheila Melrose that tightened as they passed through the long drawing-room to the terrace, where coffee was set upon a low stone table in full view of the illumined lake and sky.
‘It’s splendid to have you safe back again, child,’ she said, releasing Monica Videlle and drawing Sheila down to the seat beside her. ‘India’s monopolised you quite long enough. There’s some mysterious magnetism about that country. People seem to catch it like a disease. And I was getting alarmed lest you might succumb to the infection.’
Miss Melrose smiled thoughtfully at the sunset. ‘I’m not sure that I haven’t succumbed already!’ she said in her low, clear-cut voice. ‘I have vague tempting dreams of going back with Ralph when his furlough is up; or with Mona, to help doctor her Indian women. But probably they’ll never materialise⸺’
‘More than probably, if I have any say in the matter!’
Lady Forsyth spoke lightly, but under the lightness lurked a note of decision. She had her own private dreams concerning this girl with the softly shining eyes under level brows, and the softly resolute lips that never seemed quite to leave off smiling even in repose.
At mention of India Miss Videlle’s thoughtful face came suddenly to life. ‘It would be just lovely for me,’ she said. ‘Too good to be true!’
‘Never mind, Miss Videlle,’ Maurice consoled her almost tenderly. ‘This ripping evening’s not too good to be true. And I can put you up to some tips for squaring Lady Forsyth—in strict confidence of course!’