Part 32 (1/2)
”Dear,” said Rosalie at last to Geraldine, ”I must run away and dry my hair. How did we come out at tennis, Jack?”
”All to the bad,” he replied serenely, and nodding to Geraldine and Duane he entered the house, his young wife strolling beside him and twisting up her wet hair.
Duane seated himself and crossed his lank legs, ready for an amiable chat before he retired to dress for luncheon; but Geraldine did not even look toward him. She was lying deep in the chair, apparently relaxed and limp; but every nerve in her was at tension, every delicate muscle taut and rigid, and in her heart was anger unutterable, and close, very close to the lids which shadowed with their long fringe the brown eyes'
velvet, were tears.
”What have you been up to all the morning?” he asked. ”Did you try the fis.h.i.+ng?”
”Yes.”
”Anything doing?”
”No.”
”I thought they wouldn't rise. It's too clear and hot. That's why I didn't keep on with Kathleen and Scott. Two are enough on bright water.
Don't you think so?”
She said nothing.
”Besides,” he added, ”I knew you had old Grandcourt running close at heel and that made four rods on Hurryon. So what was the use of my joining in?”
She made no reply.
”You didn't mind, did you?” he asked carelessly.
”No.”
”Oh, all right,” he nodded, not feeling much relieved.
The strange blind anger still possessed her. She lay there immobile, expressionless, enduring it, not trying even to think why; yet her anger was rising against him, and it surged, receded helplessly, flushed her veins again till they tingled. But her lids remained closed; the lashes rested softly on the curve of her cheeks; not a tremor touched her face.
”I am wondering whether you are feeling all right,” he ventured uneasily, conscious of the tension between them.
With an effort she took command of herself.
”The sun was rather hot. It's a headache; I walked back by the road.”
”_With_ the faithful one?”
”No,” she said evenly, ”Mr. Grandcourt remained to fish.”
”He went to wors.h.i.+p and remained to fish,” said Duane, laughing. The girl lifted her face to look at him--a white little face so strange that the humour died out in his eyes.
”He's a good deal of a man,” she said. ”It's one of my few pleasant memories of this year--Mr. Grandcourt's niceness to me--and to all women.”
She set her elbow on the chair's edge and rested her cheek in her hollowed hand. Her gaze had become remote once more.
”I didn't know you took him so seriously,” he said in a low voice. ”I'm sorry, Geraldine.”
All her composure had returned. She lifted her eyes insolently.