“That was because he was always away with his regiment, you know. But we had always heard that he was charming, and delightful, and fascinating”—this with a mischievous side-glance at her companion—“and when father asked him to spend Christmas with us, at Dering, I jumped and clapped my hands, and ordered the loveliest tea-gowns and ball-dresses, and—”
“Do be serious a moment, Juliet; I want information. Remember, I know next to nothing how the thing came about.”
“Oh, well, I suppose it came about in the usual way. I’ve no doubt he asked her and she said ‘Yes.’ I don’t suppose she asked him.”
Clive made a gesture of annoyance.
“To think that Ida should throw herself away on such a man as that!” he said in a low, constrained tone.
Juliet arched her eyebrows at him.
“Why, what is the matter with him?” she exclaimed. “Our first cousin, next heir to the title, handsome, good talker, plays tennis delightfully, sings divinely! Why, I nearly fell in love with him myself.”
Here she threw another mischievous side-glance at her companion, a glance, however, which was lost on him. They were now seated side by side in the arbour, and Clive was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands half covering his face.
He did not speak for a minute or two. Juliet began beating a tattoo with her satin slipper on the floor.
Presently, he had another question to ask. It was:
“What was it brought Ida home from Florence in such a hurry? When I started for the Cape, if you remember, she had just taken it into her head that she must be an artist, and had flown off to study in the Florentine Galleries.”
“There go the Bethunes,” said Juliet, “in the brightest of grass-greens—to match the buttercup tint of their complexions, I suppose. And there go the Murrays, in bluish-green and yellow, like so many tomtits.”
From the arbour in which they were seated they could get a clear view of the drive, adown which the carriages of departing guests were now beginning to roll.
Again Clive made an impatient movement.
“Will you mind answering my question, Juliet?” he said in a tone that showed his annoyance.
“Oh, what was it? There go the St. Johns, in salmon-pink, both of them, and they’re fifty if they’re a day! Oh, I beg your pardon. What brought Ida back from Florence, did you say? My letters, I suppose. I used to fill pages with rapturous accounts of Sefton and his many good qualities, and I dare say she thought she would like to come and see him for herself. Oh, then, too, I told her how disagreeable Peggy had been over one or two things, and I suppose she thought she had better come home and take her in hand for a time.”
“Peggy” was the nickname that the young ladies had bestowed upon Miss Pigott in the days of her chaperonage and general usefulness. They preferred to retain the name now that Miss Pigott had become Lady Culvers, and occasionally brought it out with admirable effect.
“And I suppose,” said Clive, slowly, “when she came back that man was staying down in Northamptonshire with you, she was caught by his surface attractions, and before anyone could say a word the thing was done. It’s a marvel to me that your father did not put his veto on it at the outset.”
“Father!” exclaimed Juliet. “Why, he was delighted. He knows that Sefton must sooner or later come in for the title, and for Dering, too, and that he hasn’t money enough to keep it up, and it seemed to him a splendid arrangement that Ida’s money should be kept in the family. There go the Conroys! Oh, that girl has been lead-pencilling her dimple again, one can see it a mile off! Everyone’s going, I think. I’d better go back to the house now. Peggy will be thinking too much of herself if I leave her to say the goodbyes entirely on her own account.”
They both rose. Juliet made one step forward, then paused.
“One moment, Clive,” she said, “you’ve been asking me no end of questions—oh, I couldn’t count them on my fingers—will you mind just answering one? What makes you dislike Sefton as you do? Do you really know anything against him?”
Clive flushed a deep red, and for a moment did not speak.
“According to your own showing,” the girl went on, “you have only occasionally met him in society. There really can be nothing to bring against him, or, depend upon it, our kind friends, one way or another, would have been sure to have done so when they congratulated us on the marriage.”
Clive drew a long breath.
“No,” he said, slowly, “I suppose there is really nothing that I can bring against the man, although it has never been clearly explained why he sent in his papers to the Horse Guards. Your father knew of his debts, no doubt. All the world knew of them; but debts, though bad enough, are scarcely enough to condemn a man utterly. The only thing—”
He broke off abruptly, his face growing white and drawn as of a man in pain. But Juliet did not note his change of expression. Her eyes were fixed on a distant view of an elaborate arrangement of peach-coloured satin and velvet, out of which looked the round red face of Lady Culvers.
“Oh, look at Peggy trying to do the dignified,” cried the girl, laughingly. “Those are some of Ida’s greatest friends, and my lady is bowing them out with stately dignity. I must go and detain them and gush over them for at least half an hour under her very eyelids!”
Clive did not follow her across the lawn to the house, but went his way along a narrow path which led circuitously through the orchard to another entrance,
