Part 21 (1/2)

”I don't agree with you there,” snapped Mrs. Harrington. ”So you saw the Ingham-Bakers also, Fitz?”

”Yes; they lunched with us.”

”And Agatha was very pleasant, no doubt?”

”Very.”

”She always is--to men. The Count admires her greatly. She makes him do so.”

”She has an easy task,” put in De Lloseta quietly. It almost seemed that there was some feeling about Agatha between these two people.

”You know,” Mrs. Harrington went on, addressing herself to Fitz, ”that Luke and I have made it up. We are friends now.”

Fitz did not answer at once. His face clouded over. Seen thus in anger, it was almost a hard face, older and somewhat worn. He raised his eyes, and they as suddenly softened, for Eve's eyes had met them, and she seemed to understand.

”I am not inclined to discuss Luke,” he said quietly.

”My dear, I did not propose doing so,” answered Mrs. Harrington, and her voice was so humble and conciliatory that De Lloseta looked up from his plate, from one face to the other.

That Mrs. Harrington should accept this reproof thus humbly seemed to come as a surprise to them all, except Fitz, who went on eating his dinner with a singular composure.

It would appear that Mrs. Harrington had been put out of temper by some small incident at the beginning of the dinner, and, like a spoilt child, proceeded to vent her displeasure on all and sundry.

In the same way she would no doubt have continued, unless spoken sharply to, as Fitz had spoken.

For now her manner quite changed, and the rest of the meal pa.s.sed pleasantly enough. Mrs. Harrington now devoted herself to her guests, and as carefully avoided dangerous subjects as she had hitherto appeared to seek them.

After dinner she asked the Count to tune his violin, while she herself prepared to play his accompaniment.

Fitz lighted the candles and set the music ready with a certain neatness of hand rarely acquired by landsmen, and then returned to the smaller drawing-room, where Eve was seated by the fire, needlework in hand.

He stood for a moment leaning against the mantelpiece. Perhaps he was waiting for her to speak. Perhaps he did not realise how much there was in his long, silent gaze.

”How long have you been here?” he asked, when the music began.

”Ten days,” she answered, without looking up.

”But you are not going to live here?”--with some misgiving.

”Oh no. I am going to live with my uncle in Suffolk.”

He moved away a few steps to pick up a fallen newspaper. Presently he came back to her, resuming his former position at the corner of the mantelpiece.

It was Eve who spoke next--smoothing out her silken trifle of needlework and looking at it critically.

”I never thanked you,” she said, ”for all your kindness to me at D'Erraha. You were a friend in need.”

It was quite different from what it had been at D'Erraha. Possibly it was as different as were the atmospheres of the two places. Eve seemed to have something of London in the reserve of her manner--the easy insincerity of her speech. She was no longer a girl untainted by worldliness--sincere, frank, and open.

Fitz was rather taken aback.