They slouched back to their cards and their bottle. It had been bad enough to find them sullen and inhospitable, but as the liquor stimulated their unhealthy imaginations it was worse to feel the covert looks stealing now and again toward them. Joyce, sleeping fitfully in the arms of Moya, woke with a start to see them drinking together at the table.
"I don't like them. I'm afraid of them," she whispered.
"We mustn't let them know it," Moya whispered in her ear.
For an hour she had been racked by fears, had faced unflinchingly their low laughs and furtive glances.
Now one of the men spoke. "From Goldbanks?"
"Yes."
"You don't live there."
"No. We belong to the English party—Mr. Verinder's friends."
"Oh, Verinder's friends. And which of you is his particular friend?" The sneer was unmistakable.
"We started out this afternoon for wild flowers and the storm caught us," Moya hurried on.