The Crossbys, as she knew, were deeply resented. He had been an important Birmingham magnate who had lately retired from some hardware concern, on account of his health, or so ran the gossip. His wife, it was rumoured, had been on the stage in New York, so that her antecedents were doubtful—no one really knew anything at all about her, but her curious hair gave grounds for suspicion. An American wife who had been an actress was a very bad asset for Crossby. Nor was Crossby himself a prepossessing person; when judged by the county’s standards, he bounded. Moreover he showed signs of unpardonable meanness. His subscription to the Hunt had been a paltry five guineas. He had written to say that his very poor health would preclude his hunting, and had actually added that he hoped the Hunt would keep clear of his covers! And then everyone felt a natural resentment that The Grange should have had to be sacrificed for money—quite a small Tudor house it was yet very perfect. But Captain Ramsay, its erstwhile owner, had died recently, leaving large debts behind him, so his heir, a young cousin who lived in London, had promptly sold to the first wealthy bidder—hence the advent of Mr. Crossby.
Stephen, looking at Angela, remembered these things, but they suddenly seemed devoid of importance, for now those childlike eyes were upon her, and Angela was saying: “I don’t know how to thank you for saving my Tony, it was wonderful of you! If you hadn’t been there they’d have let him get killed, and I’m just devoted to Tony.”
Her voice had the soft, thick drawl of the South, an indolent voice, very lazy and restful. It was quite new to Stephen, that soft, Southern drawl, and she found it unexpectedly pleasant. Then it dawned on the girl that this woman was lovely—she was like some queer flower that had grown up in darkness, like some rare, pale flower without blemish or stain, and Stephen said flushing:
“I was glad to help you—I’ll drive you back to The Grange, if you’ll let me?”
“Why, of course we’ll let you,” came the prompt answer. “Tony says he’ll be most grateful, don’t you, Tony?” Tony wagged his tail rather faintly.
Stephen wrapped him up in a motor rug at the back of the car, where he lay as though prostrate. Angela she placed in the seat beside herself, helping her carefully as she did so.
Presently Angela said: “Thanks to Tony I’ve met you at last; I’ve been longing to meet you!” And she stared rather disconcertingly at Stephen, then smiled as though something she saw had amused her.
Stephen wondered why anyone should have longed to meet her. Feeling suddenly shy she became suspicious: “Who told you about me?” she asked abruptly.
“Mrs. Antrim, I think—yes, it was Mrs. Antrim. She said you were such a wonderful rider but that now, for some reason, you’d given up hunting. Oh, yes, and she said you fenced like a man. Do you fence like a man?”
“I don’t know,” muttered Stephen.
“Well, I’ll tell you whether you do when I’ve seen you; my father was quite a well-known fencer at one time, so I learnt a lot about fencing in the States—perhaps some day, Miss Gordon, you’ll let me see you?”
By now Stephen’s face was the colour of a beetroot, and she gripped the wheel as though she meant to hurt it. She was longing to turn round and look at her companion, the desire to look at her was almost overwhelming, but even her eyes seemed too stiff to move, so she gazed at the long dusty road in silence.
“Don’t punish the poor, wooden thing that way,” murmured Angela, “it can’t help being just wood!” Then she went on talking as though to herself: “What should I have done if that brute had killed Tony? He’s a real companion to me on my walks—I don’t know what I’d do if it weren’t for Tony, he’s such a devoted, cute little fellow, and these days I’m kind of thrown back on my dog—it’s a melancholy business walking alone, yet I’ve always been fond of walking—”
Stephen wanted to say: “But I like walking too; let me come with you sometimes as well as Tony.” Then suddenly mustering up her courage, she jerked round in the seat and looked at this woman. As their eyes met and held each other for a moment, something vaguely disturbing stirred in Stephen, so that the car made a dangerous swerve. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, “that was rotten bad driving.”
But Angela did not answer.
III
Ralph Crossby was standing at the open doorway as the car swung up and came to a halt. Stephen noticed that he was immaculately dressed in a grey tweed suit that by rights should have been shabby. But everything about him looked aggressively new, his very hair had a quality of newness—it was thin brown hair that shone as though polished.
“I wonder if he puts it out with his boots,” thought Stephen, surveying him with interest.
He was one of those rather indefinite men, who are neither short nor tall, fat nor thin, old nor young, good-looking nor actually ugly. As his wife would have said, had
