When Lady MacGregor rose and said she must write the note she had
promised Nevill to send Miss Ray, Stephen longed to kiss her. This form
of worship not being permitted, he tried to open the dining-room door
for her to go out, but Angus and Hamish glared upon him so
superciliously that he retired in their favour.
The luncheon hour, even when cloaked in the mysterious gloom of a
thunderstorm, is no time for confidences; besides, it is not conducive
to sustained conversation to find a cold nose in your palm, a baby claw
up your sleeve, or a monkey hand, like a bit of leather, thrust down
your collar or into your ear. But after dinner that night, when Lady
MacGregor had trailed her maligned "fluffiness" away to the
drawing-room, and Nevill and Stephen had strolled with their cigarettes
out into the unearthly whiteness of the lily garden, Stephen felt that
something was coming. He had known that Nevill had a story to tell, by
and by, and though he knew also that he would be asked no questions in
return, now or ever, it occurred to him that Nevill's offer of
confidences was perhaps meant to open a door, if he chose to enter by
it. He was not sure whether he would so choose or not, but the fact that
he was not sure meant a change in him. A few days ago, even this
morning, before meeting Nevill, he would have been certain that he had
nothing intimate to tell Caird or any one else.
They strolled along the paths among the lilies.
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