Lady Maria suggested that the Boers might ask that question; Morosine that the Germans might answer it. Sanchia standing between these two, faced by Ingram, kept silent. She was conscious of being closely under observation. Morosine did not once lose sight of her. Whatever he said was addressed to her. Once, when she looked at him, she saw the gleam of knowledge in his eyes. He and Ingram never spoke to each other directly; indirectly Morosine capped whatever Ingram said. It was these two who maintained the talk through her sensitive frame.
Melusine and her husband exchanged glances--she in obedience to his fidgety heels. He had dug a hole in the gravel deep enough to bury a kitten. Her curtsey--it was almost that--to Lady Maria was very pretty. She drew in her suffering sister, almost embraced her. “Dearest, dearest!” she whispered. Sanchia, who was very pale, made no answer, and hardly returned the salute.
“Insufferable beggar,” was Gerald Scales' outburst. “I could have shot him at sight. But you women will go through with it, I suppose.”
“Oh, Gerald,” faltered Melusine, “it's dreadful--but what can she do?”
“Pon my soul, I'd take Morosov--the Polish party--what's-his-name--first. I would indeed--on the whole.”
There was nothing to say. Melusine knew that could not be.
Lady Maria, however, who never made a fuss over spilt milk, lost no time in ladling up what might be possible. She asked Ingram to luncheon, and was accepted with a cheerful, “Thanks, most happy.” It may have been malice which turned her to Morosine with the question. “And you? Will you join us?”
Morosine promptly excused himself. He had guests, and must consider them. He took ceremonious leave. “You remember, I hope, that I am to see you on Thursday, Lady Maria. And Miss Percival?” He looked to Sanchia, who did not turn him her eyes.
“Perfectly,” said her ladyship. “What's your hour?”
“We will dine at half-past eight.” He named the restaurant. He turned to pay his farewells to Sanchia. She looked him No, being unable to speak to him. Her eyes, deep lakes of woe, were crying to him. His answered.
He held out his hand and received hers. “Thursday,” he repeated, and left her with her fate.
Lady Maria, at luncheon, made what she called the best of a bad business. She treated Ingram to a brisk curiosity. “So you're a wanderer, I hear--like the Gay Cavalier of my childhood. Your mother may have heard the song. Mine sang it. I believe that that kind of thing was considered heroic in her day; in ours, heroism is more difficult, and much more dull. You might try heroism, Mr. Ingram.”