XIII
George fulfilled his resolution thoroughly. With the migratory bachelors he ran from house to house, found Sylvia or not, and so thought the effort worth while or not. The first time he saw her, indeed, he appreciated Wandel's wisdom, for she stood with Dalrymple at the edge of a high lawn that looked out over the sea. Her hair in the breeze was a little astray, her cheeks were flushed, and she bent if anything toward her companion who talked earnestly and with nervous gestures. George crushed his quick impulse to go down, to step between them, to have it out with Dalrymple then and there, even in Sylvia's presence; but they strolled back to the house almost immediately, and Sylvia lost her apparent good humour, and Dalrymple descended from satisfaction to a fidgety apprehension. Sylvia met George's hand briefly.
"You'll be here long?"
The question expressed a wish.
"Only until Monday. I wish it might be longer, for I'm glad to find you—and you, Dalrymple."
"Nobody said you were expected," Dalrymple grumbled. "Everybody said you were working like a horse."
George glanced at Sylvia, smiling blandly.
"Every horse goes to grass occasionally."
He turned back to Dalrymple.
"I daresay you know Lambert and Betty are due back the first of the week?"