“Presentable,” said Lady Tamplin, “quite presentable. Her clothes are all right. That grey thing is the same model that Gladys Cooper wore in Palm Trees in Egypt.”
“Have you noticed her eyes—what?” interposed Mr. Evans.
“Never mind her eyes, Chubby,” said Lady Tamplin tartly; “we are discussing the things that really matter.”
“Oh, quite,” said Mr. Evans, and retired into his shell.
“She doesn’t seem to me very—malleable,” said Lady Tamplin, rather hesitating to choose the right word.
“She has all the instincts of a lady, as they say in books,” said Lenox, with a grin.
“Narrow-minded,” murmured Lady Tamplin. “Inevitable under the circumstances, I suppose.”
“I expect you will do your best to broaden her,” said Lenox, with a grin, “but you will have your work cut out. Just now, you noticed, she stuck down her fore feet and laid back her ears and refused to budge.”
“Anyway,” said Lady Tamplin hopefully, “she doesn’t look to me at all mean. Some people, when they come into money, seem to attach undue importance to it.”
“Oh, you’ll easily touch her for what you want,” said Lenox; “and, after all, that is all that matters, isn’t it? That is what she is here for.”
“She is my own cousin,” said Lady Tamplin, with dignity.
“Cousin, eh?” said Mr. Evans, waking up again. “I suppose I call her Katherine, don’t I?”
“It is of no importance at all what you call her, Chubby,” said Lady Tamplin.
“Good,” said Mr. Evans; “then I will. Do you suppose she plays tennis?” he added hopefully.
“Of course not,” said Lady Tamplin. “She has been a companion, I tell you. Companions don’t play tennis—or golf. They might possibly play golf-croquet, but I have always understood that they wind wool and wash dogs most of the day.”
“O God!” said Mr. Evans; “do they really?”
Lenox drifted upstairs again to Katherine’s room. “Can I help you?” she asked rather perfunctorily.
On Katherine’s disclaimer, Lenox sat on the edge of the bed and stared thoughtfully at her guest.
“Why did you come?” she said at last. “To us, I mean. We’re not your sort.”
“Oh, I am anxious to get into Society.”
“Don’t be an ass,” said Lenox promptly, detecting the flicker of a smile. “You know what I mean well enough. You are not a bit what I thought you would be. I say, you have got some decent clothes.” She sighed. “Clothes are no good to me. I was born awkward. It’s a pity, because I love them.”
“I love them too,” said Katherine, “but it has not been much use my loving them up to now. Do you think this is nice?”
She and Lenox discussed several models with artistic fervour.
“I like you,” said Lenox suddenly. “I came up to warn you not to be taken in by Mother, but I think now that there is no need to do that. You are frightfully sincere and upright and all those queer things, but you are not a fool. Oh hell! what is it now?”
Lady Tamplin’s voice was calling plaintively from the hall:
“Lenox, Derek has just rung up. He wants to come to dinner tonight. Will it be all right? I mean, we haven’t got anything awkward, like quails, have we?”
Lenox reassured her and came back into Katherine’s room. Her face looked brighter and less sullen.
“I’m glad old Derek is coming,” she said; “you’ll like him.”
“Who is Derek?”
“He is Lord Leconbury’s son, married a rich American woman. Women are simply potty about him.”
“Why?”
“Oh, the usual reason—very good-looking and a regular bad lot. Everyone goes off their head about him.”
“Do you?”
“Sometimes I do,” said Lenox, “and sometimes I think I would like to marry a nice curate and live in the country and grow things in frames.” She paused a minute, and then added, “An Irish curate would be best, and then I should hunt.”
After a minute or two she reverted to her former theme. “There is something queer about Derek. All that family are a bit potty—mad gamblers, you know. In the old days they used to gamble away their wives and their estates, and did most reckless things just for the love of it. Derek would have made a perfect highwayman—debonair and gay, just the right manner.” She moved to the door. “Well, come down when you feel like it.”
Left alone, Katherine gave herself up to thought. Just at present she felt thoroughly ill at ease and jarred by her surroundings. The shock of the discovery in the train and the reception of the news by her new friends jarred upon her susceptibilities. She thought long and earnestly about the murdered woman. She had been sorry for Ruth, but she could not honestly say that she had liked her. She had divined only too well the ruthless egoism that was the keynote of her personality, and it repelled her.
She had been amused and a trifle hurt by the other’s cool dismissal of her when she had served her turn. That she had come to some decision, Katherine was quite certain, but she wondered now what that decision had been. Whatever it was, death had stepped in and made all decisions meaningless. Strange that it should have been so, and that a brutal crime should have been the ending of that fateful journey. But suddenly Katherine remembered a small fact that she ought, perhaps, to have told the police—a fact that had for the moment escaped her memory. Was it of any real importance? She had certainly thought that she had seen a man going into that particular compartment, but she realised that she might easily have been mistaken. It might have been the compartment next door, and certainly the man in question could be no train robber. She recalled him very clearly as she had seen him on those two previous occasions—once at the Savoy and once at Cook’s office. No, doubtless she had been mistaken. He had not gone into the dead woman’s compartment, and it was perhaps as well that she had said nothing to the police. She might
