It seemed to Soames that she looked at him in a queer way. What did she
know? How much had her mother told her? The worry of trying to make that
out gave him an alarming feeling in the head. He gripped the edge of
the table, and dizzily saw Annette come forward, her eyes clear with
surprise. He shut his own and said:
"It's all right. I've had a touch of the sun, I think." The sun! What
he had was a touch of 'darkness! Annette's voice, French and composed,
said:
"Sit down, it will pass, then." Her hand pressed his shoulder, and
Soames sank into a chair. When the dark feeling dispersed, and he opened
his eyes, she was looking down at him. What an inscrutable and odd
expression for a girl of twenty!
"Do you feel better?"
"It's nothing," said Soames. Instinct told him that to be feeble
before her was not helping him--age was enough handicap without that.
Will-power was his fortune with Annette, he had lost ground these latter
months from indecision--he could not afford to lose any more. He got up,
and said:
"I'll write to your mother. I'm going down to my river house for a long
holiday. I want you both to come there presently and stay. It's just at
its best. You will, won't you?"
"It will be veree nice." A pretty little roll of that 'r' but no
enthusiasm. And rather sadly he added:
"You're feeling the heat; too, aren't you, Annette? It'll do you good to
be on the river. Good-night." Annette swayed forward. There was a sort
of compunction in the movement.
"Are you fit to go? Shall I give you some coffee?"
"No," said Soames firmly. "Give me your hand."
She held out her hand, and Soames raised it to his lips. When he looked
up, her face wore again that strange expression. 'I can't tell,' he
thought, as he went out; 'but I mustn't think--I mustn't worry:
But worry he did, walking toward Pall Mall. English, not of her
religion, middle-aged, scarred as it were by domestic tragedy, what had
he to give her? Only wealth, social position, leisure, admiration! It
was much, but was it enough for a beautiful girl of twenty? He felt so
ignorant about Annette. He had, too, a curious fear of the French nature
of her mother and herself. They knew so well what they wanted. They were
almost Forsytes. They would never grasp a shadow and miss a substance.
The tremendous effort it was to write a simple note to Madame Lamotte
when he reached his Club warned him still further that he was at the end
of his tether.