less than her usual vivacity.
[Illustration: “No—I shall have to ask you to take my word for it.”]
It was one of Mrs. Ansell’s arts to bring to the breakfast-table just the right shade of sprightliness, a warmth subdued by discretion as the early sunlight is tempered by the lingering coolness of night. She was, in short, as fresh, as temperate, as the hour, yet without the concomitant chill which too often marks its human atmosphere: rather her soft effulgence dissipated the morning frosts, opening pinched spirits to a promise of midday warmth. But on this occasion a mist of uncertainty hung on her smile, and veiled the glance which she turned on the contents of the heavy silver dishes successively presented to her notice. When, at the conclusion of this ceremony, the servants had withdrawn, she continued for a moment to stir her tea in silence, while her glance travelled from Mr. Tredegar, sunk in his morning mail, to Mr. Langhope, who leaned back resignedly in his chair, trying to solace himself with Hanaford Banner, till midday should bring him a sight of the metropolitan press.
“I suppose you know,” she said suddenly, “that Bessy has telegraphed for Cicely, and made her arrangements to stay here another week.”
Mr. Langhope’s stick slipped to the floor with the sudden displacement of his whole lounging person, and Mr. Tredegar, removing his tortoise-shell reading-glasses, put them hastily into their case, as though to declare for instant departure.
“My dear Maria—” Mr. Langhope gasped, while she rose and restored his stick.
“She considers it, then, her duty to wait and see Truscomb?” the lawyer asked; and Mrs. Ansell, regaining her seat, murmured discreetly: “She puts it so—yes.”
“My dear Maria—” Mr. Langhope repeated helplessly, tossing aside his paper and drawing his chair up to the table.
“But it would be perfectly easy to return: it is quite unnecessary to wait here for his recovery,” Mr. Tredegar pursued, as though setting forth a fact which had not hitherto presented itself to the more limited intelligence of his hearers.
Mr. Langhope emitted a short laugh, and Mrs. Ansell answered gently: “She says she detests the long journey.”
Mr. Tredegar rose and gathered up his letters with a gesture of annoyance. “In that case—if I had been notified earlier of this decision, I might have caught the morning train,” he interrupted himself, glancing resentfully at his watch.
“Oh, don’t leave us, Tredegar,” Mr. Langhope entreated. “We’ll reason with her—we’ll persuade her to go back by the three-forty.”
Mrs. Ansell smiled. “She telegraphed at seven. Cicely and the governess are already on their way.”
“At seven? But, my dear friend, why on earth didn’t you tell us?”
“I didn’t know till a few minutes ago. Bessy called me in as I was coming down.”
“Ah—” Mr. Langhope murmured, meeting her eyes for a fraction of a second. In the encounter, she appeared to communicate something more than she had spoken, for as he stooped to pick up his paper he said, more easily: “My dear Tredegar, if we’re in a box there’s no reason why we should force you into it too. Ring for Ropes, and we’ll look up a train for you.”
Mr. Tredegar appeared slightly ruffled at this prompt acquiescence in his threatened departure. “Of course, if I had been notified in advance, I might have arranged to postpone my engagements another day; but in any case, it is quite out of the question that I should return in a week—and quite unnecessary,” he added, snapping his lips shut as though he were closing his last portmanteau.
“Oh, quite—quite,” Mr. Langhope assented. “It isn’t, in fact, in the least necessary for any of us either to stay on now or to return. Truscomb could come to Long Island when he recovers, and answer any questions we may have to put; but if Bessy has sent for the child, we must of course put off going for today—at least I must,” he added sighing, “and, though I know it’s out of the question to exact such a sacrifice from you, I have a faint hope that our delightful friend here, with the altruistic spirit of her sex–-“
“Oh, I shall enjoy it—my maid is unpacking,” Mrs. Ansell gaily affirmed; and Mr. Tredegar, shrugging his shoulders, said curtly: “In that case I will ring for the time-table.”
When he had withdrawn to consult it in the seclusion of the library, and Mrs. Ansell, affecting a sudden desire for a second cup of tea, had reseated herself to await the replenishment of the kettle, Mr. Langhope exchanged his own chair for a place at her side.
“Now what on earth does this mean?” he asked, lighting a cigarette in response to her slight nod of consent.
Mrs. Ansell’s gaze lost itself in the depths of the empty tea-pot.
