Part 66 (2/2)

Craven! Miss Cronin had found him once with Beryl in the latter's sitting-room; she had reason to believe they had played golf together.

The young man was certainly handsome. And then Beryl had seemed quite altered just lately. Her temper was decidedly uncertain. She was unusually restless and preoccupied. Twice she had been exceedingly cross about Bourget. And she looked different, too; even Suzanne Hodson had noticed it. There was something in her face--”a sort of look,” Miss Cronin called it, with an apt feeling for the choice of words--which was new and alarming. Mrs. Clem declared that Beryl had the expression of a woman who was crazy about a man.

”It's the eyes and the cheek-bones that tell the tale, f.a.n.n.y!” she had observed. ”They can't deceive a woman. Don't talk to me about the Wallace Collection.”

Poor Miss Cronin was very uneasy. The future looked almost as dark as the London days. As she lay upon the French bed, or reclined upon the sofa, or sat deep in her arm-chair, she envisaged an awful change, when the Avenue Henri Martin would know her no more, when she might have to return to the lair in Philadelphia from which Miss Van Tuyn had summoned her to take charge of Beryl.

One day, when she was almost brooding over the fire, between five and six o'clock in the afternoon, the door opened and Beryl appeared. She had been out since eleven in the morning. But that was nothing new. She went out very often about half-past ten and scarcely ever came back to lunch.

”f.a.n.n.y!” she said. ”I want you.”

”What is it, dear?” said Miss Cronin, sitting forward a little in her chair and laying aside her book.

”I've brought back a friend, and I want you to know him. Come into my sitting-room.”

Miss Cronin got up obediently and remembering Mrs. Clem's words, looked at Beryl's cheek-bones and eyes.

”Is it Mr. Craven?” she asked in a quavering voice.

”Mr. Craven--no! You know him already.”

”I have seen him once, dear.”

”Come along!”

Miss Cronin followed her into the lobby. The door of the sitting-room was open, and by the fire was standing a stalwart-looking man in a dark blue overcoat. As Miss Cronin came in he gazed at her, and she thought she had never before seen such a pair of matching brown eyes. Beryl introduced him as Mr. Arabian.

The stranger bowed, and then pressed Miss Cronin's freckled right hand gently, but strongly too.

”I have been hoping to meet you,” he said, in a strong but gentle voice which had, Miss Cronin thought, almost caressing inflexions.

”Very glad to meet you, indeed!” said the companion.

”Yes. Miss Van Tuyn has told me what you are to her.”

”Forgive me for a minute!” said Miss Van Tuyn. ”I must take off my things. They all feel as if they were full of fog. f.a.n.n.y, entertain Mr.

Arabian until I come back. But don't talk about Bourget. He's never read Bourget, I'm sure.”

She looked at f.a.n.n.y Cronin and went out of the room. And in that look old f.a.n.n.y, slow in the uptake though she undoubtedly was, read a tremendous piece of news.

This must be the Wallace Collection!

That was how her mind put it. This must be the great reason of Beryl's lingering in London, this total stranger of whom she had never heard till this moment. Her instinct had not deceived her. Beryl had at last fallen in love. And probably Mr. Braybrooke had been aware of it when he had called that afternoon and talked so persistently about the changes and chances of life. In that case Miss Cronin had wronged him. And he had perhaps come to plead the cause of another.

”The weather--it is really terrible, is it not? You are wise to stay in the warm.”

So the conversation began between Miss Cronin and Arabian, and it continued for quite a quarter of an hour. Then Miss Van Tuyn came back in a tea gown, looking lovely with her uncovered hair and her s.h.i.+ning, excited eyes, and some twenty minutes later Arabian went away.

When he had gone Miss Van Tuyn said carelessly:

”f.a.n.n.y, darling, what do you think of him?”

f.a.n.n.y, darling! That was not Beryl's usual way of putting things. Miss Cronin was much shaken. She felt the ground of her life, as it were, rocking beneath her feet, and yet she answered--she could not help it:

<script>