This fine speech delivered, he looked down and plucked at his cuff. And presently, as he was about to speak again, Mrs. Lyeth raised her fan.
“After that I have either to thank you or to go!” Her voice was less severe than pained, and she seemed to retreat yet further in her chair. “And I thank you,” she added, after a pause, “but it is you that must go.”
To this Tancred answered nothing. He contented himself with looking insubordinate and cross.
“My poor boy!” she murmured, and sighed—or was it a sigh?—a sound that seemed to come less from the heart than the spirit. “My poor boy! But don’t you know that you are absurd? I have three brothers—one of them, by the way, is here now; he went down the coast on Tuesday with some friends; he will be back, though, tomorrow or the day after. However, each of my brothers has fallen in love with a woman older than himself, and each of them has fallen in love again and again. I am, believe me, grateful for your homage. What you have said is enough to make any woman pleased. And were I younger—well, then, since you will have it so—were I free, I would ask to hear it until I knew the words by heart. It would be pleasant, that. Oh, there might be so very many pleasant things; yet that is one that may not be. Tomorrow, the next day, no matter, presently you will go; a week later you will find some beauty in Madras, and, if you think of me then, it will be but with a smile.”
She had risen at last, and stood now smiling too. For the life of him Tancred could not imagine anything fairer, more debonair, nor yet more just than she.
“If I vex you,” he said, “I will hold my tongue. But at least you might stay. I will promise this—”
But whatever the intended promise may have been it remained unformulated. In the entrance of the balé-balé Liance had suddenly appeared.
“It is late, is it not?” Mrs. Lyeth, for countenance sake, inquired.
The girl shrugged her shoulders. A gong in the distance answered in her stead.
“It is late,” Mrs. Lyeth announced. “We had better go in.”
She moved from the pavilion, and presently all three reached the house. The hallway was unlighted, a flicker from the dining-room beyond serving only to make the darkness more opaque.
“Where is Atcheh?” she asked, and called the “boy” by name.
“There,” said Tancred, “let me try to find a match.”
He groped down the corridor to his room and in a moment or two returned. On the way back he passed someone he took to be Liance.
“I could not find one,” he exclaimed.
So well as he was able to make out, Mrs. Lyeth had not moved. To his speech she answered nothing. He advanced a little nearer and tried to take her hand again, but it eluded him. And in an effort to possess himself of it he approached nearer still. Her face seemed to be in the way; for one fleeting second his lips rested on it, then a noise of hoofs must have alarmed him, for he wheeled like a rat surprised. And presently, after he had reached his room again, he heard Mrs. Lyeth welcoming her future husband on the porch.
III
From his window the next morning Tancred caught a glimpse of Mrs. Lyeth entering the pavilion beyond. He left the house at once and hastened to join her; but Liance must have preceded him. When he reached the pavilion she was already there. On her head was a hat unribboned and broad of brim, in her hand a basket. She struck Tancred as being more restless than usual, but the widow was thoroughly at ease. Apparently the episode in the hallway had not disturbed her in the least. For a few moments there was a common indulgence in those amiable platitudes of which the morning hours are prolific, and then Liance stood up.
“If you are going to the coppice, take Mr. Ennever,” Mrs. Lyeth suggested. “He looks bored to death.”
“Certainly I will,” the girl answered.
Her voice was cordial and her eyes and mouth seemed to invite. Tancred, however, did not on that account experience any notable desire to accompany her. On the contrary, he infinitely preferred to remain where he was. But there was no help for him, not even an excuse. He had his choice between going and being downright rude. Accordingly he smiled, but inwardly he swore.
“Show him the rafflesia,” Mrs. Lyeth added.
“The what?”
“You shall see it; come.”
Liance turned and led the way, and as Tancred followed he marvelled at the widow’s attitude. If he had not kissed her at all she could not have appeared more unconcerned.
To the left was a grove of betel-nut palms, to the right a patch of aroids, broad and leathery of leaf. Save for a whir of pheasants in the distance, and the hum of insects, the hour was still. Even the sea was silent; and had it not been for the odors of strange plants Tancred could have closed his eyes and fancied
