A sound of
church-bells came through the evening twilight. The trees of the avenue
were still bare, but there was a misty suggestion of swelling buds in
the saplings. The wind that softly rustled through them seemed to
whisper a special secret to each.
"I like those bells," murmured Cynthia. "They make one feel almost holy.
Jack, you're not fretting over me?"
"No, dear," said Babbacombe steadily.
She squeezed his arm.
"I'm so glad, for--honest Injun--I'm not worth it. Good-bye, then, dear
Jack! Just drive straight away directly you've put me down. I shall find
my own way in."
He took her at her word as he always did, and, having deposited her at
the gate under the trees that led to his bailiff's abode, he shot
swiftly away into the gathering dusk without a single glance behind.
West, entering his home a full hour later, heavy-footed, the inevitable
cigarette between his lips, was surprised to discover, on hanging up his
cap, a morsel of white pasteboard stuck jauntily into the glass of the
hatstand. It seemed to fling him an airy challenge. He stooped to look.
A lady's visiting-card! Mrs. Nat V. West!
A deep flush rose suddenly in his weather-beaten face. He seized the
card, and crushed it against his lips.
But a few moments later, when he opened his dining-room door, there was
no hint of emotion in his bearing. He bore himself with the rigidity of
a man who knows he has a battle before him.
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