Part 43 (1/2)

Andreyvitch!”

And then Gregory Manners turned to Mrs. Broughton-Hollins.

”Good afternoon,” he said, quietly.

A bit fl.u.s.tered, the hostess got hastily to her feet.

”So good of you to come--You know every one, don't you, Gregory? You'll have your tea here with us?” And below her breath, she added: ”You mustn't be too hard on Andreyvitch, Gregory. These Russians--well, they're all a bit primitive.”

He went from one to the other of the men. He kissed Kathleen's hand and told her how pretty she looked. He let Mrs. Broughton-Hollins pour his tea, and he ignored the Russian completely, the while he watched Kathleen with a strange foreboding, as her eyes flickered again and again over Andreyvitch's face.

Things did not go very smoothly during the next two days. Naturally they all did the usual. Golf and riding, bridge and dancing in the evenings, and shooting. Andreyvitch was pa.s.sionately fond of shooting. Manners had never so much as killed a sparrow in all his life.

There was an undercurrent of uneasiness which permeated the entire household. It was not particularly because of Andreyvitch and Manners.

It was something that not one of them could have explained if they had been put to it.

The first day Mrs. Galvin told her husband that she would be glad when it was all over. And although unexpressed that was the general sentiment.

Not that Andreyvitch or Manners made the others uncomfortable. After Gregory's first outburst, and now that they were under the same roof, it rather seemed that the Russian avoided Manners. And Manners--He watched carefully every movement, every little turn or twist of Andreyvitch's.

At that time it was as if he were trying to substantiate some memory of his; to substantiate it deliberately and positively.

And then because of Andreyvitch's unceasing attentions to Kathleen Bennet, word went round among the various members of the house-party that Gregory and Kathleen had quarreled.

It was Sunday afternoon when Manners came upon Kathleen walking alone in the rose-garden.

”I'll be jolly well glad,” he told her, ”when we get back to town again.”

”Aren't you having a good time, Greg?”

”How can I?”

”But you really needed the rest--You haven't been looking any too fit, you know. I thought this would be quite nice for you, Greg.”

He let loose at that.

”If you must have it, Kathleen. I can't stand you and that bounder in the same house. That's the truth of it, old girl!”

She avoided answering him directly.

”It's such a ripping place here, Gregory. All--that is, all but those forests over there. The gardener told me his grandfather used to call them the Wood of Living Trees. He couldn't tell me why--only--Isn't it a strange name, Greg?”

She wound up lamely. Evidently she had not said what she started out to say.

”Not so awfully,” he answered absent-mindedly. ”It's probably an old, old name. They stick to places, you know.”

”But the woods,” she went on slowly, ”they're so dark and mysterious and all that sort of thing. I've wanted to explore them ever since I've been here--that is--that's not altogether true, Gregory. They frighten me a good bit--especially at night. I get into quite a funk about it--at night. I say, you wouldn't call me a coward, would you, Gregory?”

”Of course not, Kathleen. What utter nonsense!”

”But if I weren't afraid,” she continued half to herself. ”If I weren't really terrified, I'd go into the woods and show myself there's nothing to be frightened of, wouldn't I?”