"My dear," she said gently, "I--I think I prefer you as you are!"

Grizel did not answer, but her eyes softened, and she slipped her hand an inch forward so that it pressed against the black satin sleeve. She was thinking happily that she had already two friends in Chumley, Ca.s.sandra, and--the Vicar's wife!

Seeing a pause in the conversation, a small woman in pink satin made a swoop for the seat next the bride, and eyed her with a bright, birdlike smile. This was Mrs Fotheringham (with a small "f"), a lady who combined having nothing to say with a positively uninterrupted flow of conversation. She overcame the apparent difficulty by pouring forth a flood of personal questions, from the storehouse of a curiosity which knew no bounds. She pounced upon Grizel now, as a hawk pounces upon its prey.

"So pleased to meet you to-night. So unfortunate to miss you when I called. I've been so longing to meet you. Knew you so well by name.

You were Miss Grizel Dundas?"

"Yes."

"Niece of Lady Griselda?"

"Yes."

"Lived with her, didn't you? Sort of adopted child?"

"Yes."

"All your life?"

"Yes."

"But of course you had parents?--"

"No--"

The "no" was devilment pure and simple, and gave Mrs Fotheringham what is technically described as a "sensation." She jerked, stared, and finally forced a wooden laugh.

"Oh, I see. Yes. Stupid of me. Died, I suppose, at your birth?"

"One after. One before."

"How sad. Very eccentric, wasn't she? Lady Griselda, I mean. I've heard that she was exceedingly--"

"She was."

"But you got on with her? Must have done, of course, or she would not... Quite attached to you, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"So nice! And you stayed with her until her death, and married immediately after? It was immediately after, was it not?"

"Several months."

"So nice for you that you had Mr Beverley. He must be a proud man.

Not many women would have given up so much. But I'm sure you never regret it?"

"Oh, but I do!" cried Grizel. "_Often_!"

She was getting bored by this time, and decided that this might be a favourable point at which to end the catechism, so she rose and strolled across the room, leaving Mrs Fotheringham to express her consternation to the nearest listener.

"How extraordinary! Did you hear? She said she _does_!"

But Mrs Evans had known the question-monger from a child, and stood upon no ceremony.

"You had no right to put such a question, Flora. It was impertinent.

Mrs Beverley answered in the only manner possible, by turning it into a joke."

"I suppose so. Yes. It must have been a joke. She _looks_ happy."

The birdlike eyes roved towards Martin, who had just entered the room with the other men, and subjected him to a curious scrutiny. "_Do_ you think he looks worth it?"

"My dear, it is immaterial what I think! How can any outsider judge of the worth which another woman's husband represents to herself? It's not a question of credentials. It's a question of _fit_!"

Half an hour later the Squire b.u.t.tonholed Peignton in a corner of the room, and gave him his instructions.

"I've ordered the car for Miss Mallison. See her safely home, will you, and take it on to your own place? Might as well do two good turns while it's about it."

His look gave significance to the words, and Peignton could not do less than declare his pleasure at the suggestion. As a matter of fact, however, it was not pleasure of which he was conscious at that moment, but something unaccountably like disappointment.

He had not expected the evening to end so soon; he was unwilling to be dismissed. Throughout the long dinner he had been subconsciously looking forward to something to come; and he now felt defrauded and chilled. He had imagined that he would have had five minutes' talk with Lady Ca.s.sandra--that they would laugh together, and in the meeting of eyes exchange confidences which it would have been indiscreet to put into words, but Ca.s.sandra was surrounded by guests of honour, and apparently oblivious of his presence.

She turned with a start as he approached her with Teresa by his side, and received the girl's adieux with a gracious smile. "So soon!

Captain Peignton going to see you home. That's right. _Good_ night.

It was really n.o.ble of you to come to the rescue. So very many thanks!"

Her manner to the girl was all that could be wished, but as she turned to Peignton there came an unmistakable chill. Her face, her voice, the fleeting touch of her hand were alike cold, devoid of friendship.

Ca.s.sandra was disappointed too, and, womanlike, vented her displeasure on her fellow-sufferer. She also had looked forward to a few brief moments of communion after the emptiness of the evening. She also had the baffled feeling of one who has waited for naught. The while she listened to Lady Mawson's dreary p.r.o.nouncements she watched the dark figure follow the girl from the room, and a pang pierced her heart.

"Oh, to be young! To be young,--and to be loved!"

Peignton struggled into his coat, and muttered savagely when a stud caught in the lining. His usual mood was so serene that this sudden irritability and depression was as puzzling as it was disagreeable. He asked himself curtly what the devil was wrong, and made a swift mental summary of the wine consumed at dinner. Nothing wrong, but these elaborate feasts were not in his line. They bored him stiff. Another time he would decline...

At this point Teresa made her appearance wrapped in a white opera cloak, with her mother's best lace scarf draped over her head, and Dane's depression lightened, as he smiled at her and took his place by her side in the car. He felt a pleasant sense of intimacy as the door shut, and they were alone together speeding through the darkened park. He had been thinking a good deal of marriage lately, more than he had ever done before, but he did not realise that at the same time he had been thinking less of Teresa. He thought of her now, warmed by her presence, and by the natural rebound from his fit of irritation. She looked pretty in that white kit,--that lace over her face was uncommonly becoming. He had divined the difficulty of her position during the evening, pitchforked among a number of people who as a rule ignored her existence, and he had admired the quiet composure of her manner. A nice little girl. A dear little girl. A pretty, clever, uncommonly sensible little girl.

Teresa looked up, met the approval in his eyes, and thrilled with happiness. The evening had come as an unexpected and golden ending to a long dull day. At tea-time she had been dismally counting over the days which had elapsed since her last sight of Peignton, dismally realising that no mutual engagements lay ahead, and then suddenly the summons had arrived which had placed her by his side during the length of that long dinner, and, best of all, ensured this _tete-a-tete_ drive in the friendly dimness. Surely now--if he cared at all, he would open his heart--

But Peignton was far from such an intention; he was opening his lips to make some casual remark, half-bantering, half-caressing, as had grown to be his habit when with Teresa, when there suddenly came about one of those small happenings which are monumental in their effect on life.

The chauffeur, steering out of the lodge gate, took a sharp turn, and the inner wheels of the car descended into the ditch. He was a skilful driver, and as a rule careful enough, but the necessity of turning out at night for the convenience of an insignificant guest had tried his temper, and he was not unwilling to prejudice Miss Mallison against a repet.i.tion of the drive. In any case, the swerve was startling enough, and Teresa, feeling herself sinking through s.p.a.ce, instinctively threw out her hands and grasped the nearest object. For the moment she was unconscious that that object was Dane himself; she simply found support, and clung, and Dane's arms held her fast. Two or three violent wrenches followed, as the whole strength of the car struggled to mount the incline, and meantime, locked in each other's arms, the man and the girl swayed together, this way and that, backwards and forwards, until with a final jerk and groan the roadway was reached. All the time Teresa had not uttered a sound, but now that safety was a.s.sured, a sobbing breath quavered from between her lips. It was a pathetic little sound, like the sob of a child in pain, and the red lips were very near. From pure instinct, rather than any definite intention, Peignton bent still nearer, and kissed those lips into silence, murmuring gentle words of encouragement.

"Poor girl--poor dear! It's all over... We are all right now. You are not frightened, Teresa?"

He held her fast, resisting a faint movement to escape. He did not want her to go. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her again, and feel her lips tremble against his own. The sore, wounded feeling of the evening had disappeared, his heart was beating with strong, rapid strokes. The electric lamp showed the girl's face flushed and tremulous, the eyes shyly drooping before his own. He bent over her and whispered a question, knowing full well what the answer would be, but wanting to hear it, all the same.

"Are you angry with me for kissing you, Teresa?"

The girl shook her head. Her low voice sounded young and sweet.

"Oh, no... I'm glad!"