“No, I told her that, but she seemed to think you ought to get her out of the difficulty with the table.”
She did not tell her sister that Lorna Rivington’s rather sharp reply had been, “Your sister and he are such great friends that I am sure he would do it if she asked him.” Instead she whispered in her sister’s ear, “Why don’t you ask Mr. Image? He is such a nice, obliging dear.”
Because her feelings were divided between an unreasonable anger that Mrs. Rivington should make such a suggestion and a pleasurable relief that her long drive might not be so boresome after all, she seized on the alternative suggestion.
“Mr. Image, you have heard of my dilemma. Would you earn the martyr’s crown and take me out to Hampstead? It’s too bad to ask you at such short notice, but——”
“I should have been only too pleased,” returned Image, with a note of sincere regret, “but it is the anniversary of my mother’s death, and I always spend the evening quite quietly. At any other time, if such a situation occurs and I can fill the bill, ring me up and just give me time to dress. But you must give me an hour—I can’t do it in less.” It was well known that Carey Image took an age to attire himself. His neat, precise personal habits and leisurely methods of dressing were a constant amusement to his friends and a handle to his—very few—enemies.
Several people came up to make their adieux, among them Frank Hamilton.
“Why are you going so soon?” asked Claudia of him, for he had lately slipped into the habit of outstaying other visitors and waiting for a talk with her.
“I promised to go to Ealing to-night,” he said with a self-pitying sigh.
“Ealing,” said Claudia vaguely. “Where is that? Then it’s no good asking you to come out with me this evening? My husband is detained at his chambers and I want a substitute.” She was conscious of a slight sense of disappointment, though she had fully made up her mind a minute previously not to ask Hamilton.
“Yes, it is,” he said eagerly. “I can send a wire.”
“Of no importance. I can easily go some other night. Old friends.... If you will have me I am entirely at your service.”
He looked into her eyes with his, over which he had not troubled to draw the blinds of conventionality. They underlined and emphasized the spoken words so that no woman could fail to understand. And she felt a pleasing sensation of power as she parried his devotion. She did not acknowledge it to herself, but she was subtly aware that they were both on the brink of deep waters. His eyes had spoken words of love for many weeks. His very _naïveté_ and boyishness had its attraction for her. He was just as easy to move as Gilbert was difficult. She could colour his thoughts, deflect his mind, bring him instantly inside the circle of her mood. He took his colour from her like a chameleon, and she did not stop to consider whether she alone had this power, or if Frank Hamilton were always so influenced by attractive women.