“Will you ring the bell, Edmund, please, for another cup. Mrs. Elles, you must have some tea!”
“Thank you, no. I think I won’t——” began Mrs. Elles. To calmly sit down and drink a cup of tea at a juncture like this! It was not to be thought of.
“Oh, but you must. North country people can’t do without their tea, I know that. Only in London we don’t have sweet little cakes like yours. What do you call them—girdle cakes?”
So Egidia ran on, putting her visitor into a chair and pouring out a cup of tea and looking after her comfort in the most solicitous manner. Mrs. Elles felt that, considering “everything,” this made her look ridiculous—but then Egidia could not be expected to know about “everything”! Rivers would surely not have told her about what had happened in the woods of Brignal. That was their affair—hers and his. Egidia would never have received her like this had she known. She felt a warm glow of pleasure on recognising the bond between her and him of a common secret.
But he was very cleverly neutral in manner. As he handed her the cake his eyes met hers with a curious look, searching but impenetrable. It disconcerted her. It seemed to take her all in, but it gave nothing out. But she was at least positive that there was no love in it, no pleasurable excitement in a loved mistress refound. Under the oppression of this idea she took a draught of hot tea that scalded her and in the access of pain that ensued persuaded herself that she was glad of the counter-irritant.
“Look, Mrs. Elles, at this little sketch Mr. Rivers has just given me for my birthday,” Egidia was saying, as she held up a framed water-colour drawing lovingly.
Mrs. Elles looked at it. The rush of recollection was not so blinding as she expected, but poignant enough.
“Where is it?” she asked, for form’s sake. She knew well enough.
“May I tell her, Edmund?”
He made a little nod in the affirmative.