Harry had gone back to Cambridge for the July term the day before, and she found on her arrival that she had the house to herself. The afternoon had turned a little chilly, and she enjoyed the invigoration of a hot bath, and a subsequent hour’s rest on her sofa. Then it was time to dress, and though the dinner was of the simplest conjugal character, she put on a dress she had worn but some half-dozen of times before, but which on this one occasion it was meet should descend from the pompous existence that was its destiny for a year or two to come. It was of daring rose-colour, the most resplendent possible, and never failed to create an impression. Indeed, she had, on one of its infrequent appearances, heard Lyndhurst say to his neighbour in an undertone, “Upon my soul, Amy looks very well to-night.” And Amy meant to look very well again.
All happened as she had planned. Shortly after eight Lyndhurst tapped at her door on his return from the club, but could not be admitted, and at half-past, having heard him go downstairs, she followed him. He had not dressed, according to their custom when they were alone.
Major Ames was writing a note when she entered, and only turned round in his chair, not getting up.
“Glad to see you home, my dear,” he said. “Excuse me one moment. I must just direct this.”
She kissed him and waited while he scrawled an address. Then he got up and rang the bell.
“Just in time to catch the post,” he said. “By Jove! Amy, you’ve put on the famous pink gown. I would have dressed if I had known. You’re tired with your journey, I expect. It was a very hot day here, until a couple of hours ago.”
They sat down opposite each other at ends of the rather long table. There were no flowers on it, for it had not occurred to him to get the garden to welcome her home-coming, and the whole of her resplendency was visible to him. He began eating his soup vigorously.
“Capital plan in summer to have dinner at half-past eight,” he said. “Gives one most of the daylight and not so long an evening afterwards. Excellent pea-soup, this. Fresh peas from my garden. The Evans’ dine at eight-thirty. And how have you been, Amy?”
Some indefinable chill of misgiving, against which she struggled, had laid cold fingers on her. Things were not going any longer as she had planned them. He had noticed her gown, but he had noticed nothing else. But then he had scarcely looked up since they had come into the dining-room. But now he finished his soup, and she challenged his attention.