Jeannie, as Daisy had heard, had advised that in view of the
approaching storm they should not go far, and it was now about an
hour since she and Tom Lindfield had, after this stipulation, gone
down to the river. They had taken a punt, and pushed out from the
hot, reeking boathouse that smelt strongly of the tar that was
growing soft and viscous on its roof beneath the heat of the day, and
slid down the backwater towards the river. The weeds here wanted
cutting, and they wrapped themselves affectionately round the
punt-pole, and dragged their green slender fingers along the bottom
of the punt as if seeking to delay its passage. Then for a moment
they had found a little coolness as they passed below the chestnut
trees that extended their long boughs three-quarters of the way
across the backwater, and Jeannie had said,--
"Lord Lindfield, you will certainly get very hot if you punt me
up-stream, and we shall probably both get very wet before we get back.
Let us stop here."
He had been by no means unwilling, and they had tied up.
"And sit down," she said; "out of these two thousand cushions I can
spare you a few. There, on the bottom of the boat."
"I didn't suggest stopping," he said. "You mustn't be sarcastic
afterwards over the immense expedition I took you."
"I promise not. I don't think I should ever be sarcastic to you, do you
know? You would only laugh. The point of sarcasm is to give pain."
"And you don't want to give me pain? Hurrah!"
"Ah, I'm not sure that a little pain would not be rather good for
you. I think you have almost too delightful a time. When did you
last not enjoy yourself? And yet I don't know; perhaps you deserve it
all. I am sure you give your friends a delightful time though you do
have one yourself. Poor Daisy! I am afraid she isn't having a good
time this afternoon; she has a headache. I offered sympathy and
companionship, but she felt like being alone. Poor Daisy!"
Jeannie's voice suddenly died. She meant him to say something about
Daisy, but for herself she felt as if she could not go on talking.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I thought she wasn't looking very brilliant. She
should have come out with us for a run in the motor. Jove! it is hot
even here. I think it was an excellent plan not to go any further;
besides, I want to talk most awfully."
A week ago Jeannie had loathed the thought of this man even as, and for
the same reason, she loathed the thought of Paris when she passed
through it. But at the moment she did not loathe the thought of him at
all, nor did she loathe him. She who so loved the sunshine and joy of
life could not but like one who took so keen and boyish a pleasure in
its pleasantness, and, boylike also, turned so uncompromising a back on
all that was unpleasant or even puzzling.
He had no use for unpleasantness and no head for puzzles. From an
intellectual point of view he might have been called stupid; but
intellectual though Jeannie was, she never took her view of life or her
estimate of people from that standpoint. Affection and simplicity and
good-fellowship were things that seemed to matter to her much more.
From the human point of view, then, which does not concern itself with
one's neighbour's intellectual qualities any more than it concerns
itself with his morals, she had quickly grown to like this simple,
pleasant man, who had so good an appetite for the joys of life. And her
liking for him made her task far more difficult and far more repulsive
to her than she had anticipated.
She had thought that as far as he was concerned she would find it
perfectly easy to be ruthless, steeling herself to it by the memory of
Diana. That memory had not in the least faded, but there had come into
the foreground of her life this liking and sympathy for the man who she
hoped was to be her victim.
It made what she was doing doubly odious to her, and yet, think and
puzzle as she might, she could devise no plan but this, which, if it
succeeded, would spare Daisy the knowledge that she herself had promised
Diana to spare her.
As far as things had gone, she was fairly content with what she had
accomplished. It was all horrible to her, but the plan was working quite
well. He had scarcely seen Daisy since they had come down here, while
he had seldom been out of her own company, and it was clear to Mrs.
Halton that Daisy was certainly beginning to be puzzled, and, poor
child, was beginning to feel hurt and slighted.
But there had been as yet no more than a beginning made; Lord Lindfield
would have to be far more taken up with herself than he was now, and
Daisy, poor dear, would have to be far more deeply wounded and hurt
before the thing was accomplished. And already Mrs. Halton felt sick at
heart about it all. Yet till a better plan could be thought of she had
not to set her teeth, but to smile her best, and flirt, flirt, flirt.
There was but one bright spot in the whole affair, and that the few words
which she had had with Victor early that morning before breakfast. She
had asked him, not pointedly, but in a general way arising out of their
talk, what he would think if in some way she completely puzzled him, and
acted in a manner that was incomprehensible. And he had laughed.
"Why, my darling, what an easy question," he said. "I should know that
there was something behind I didn't understand. I should wait for you to
tell me about it."
"And if I never told you about it?" asked Jeannie.
"Then, dear, I should know you had some good reason for that. But I
should never ask you, I think, and I know I should never cease to trust
you or forget that we are--well, you and me."
That was wine to her.