The boy, close to his mother and facing Scarborough, was looking from
her to him and back again--curiously, it almost seemed suspiciously.
Both noticed it; both flushed slightly. Scarborough shook hands with
her, bowed to the little boy with a formality and constraint that might
have seemed ludicrous to an onlooker. He went toward his horse;
Gardiner and his mother took the course at right angles across the
field in the direction in which the towers of the Eyrie could be seen
above the tree-tops. Suddenly the boy said, as if it were the
conclusion of a long internal argument: "I like Mr. Scarborough."
"Why not?" asked his mother, amused.
"I--I don't know," replied the boy. "Anyhow, I like him. I wish he'd
come and stay with us and Aunt Gladys."
Gladys! The reminder made her uncomfortable, made her feel that she
ought to be remorseful. But she hastened on to defend herself. What
reason had she to believe that Gladys cared for him, except as she
always cared for difficult conquest? Hadn't Gladys again and again
gone out of her way to explain that she wasn't in love with him?
Hadn't she said, only two days before: "I don't believe I could fall in
love with any man. Certainly I couldn't unless he had made it very
clear to me that he was in love with me."
Pauline had latterly been suspecting that these elaborations of
superfluous protestation were Gladys' efforts to curtain herself. Now
she dwelt upon them with eager pleasure, and assured and reassured
herself that she had been supersensitive and that Gladys had really
been frank and truthful with her.