The evening was a very happy one. There was a distinct air of
festivity about the elderly woman and her two young companions as
they sat in the restaurant enjoying dinner, liking and admiring each
other and full of pleasurable anticipations of the play.
Mary looked pretty. The lamps were becomingly shaded and softened
her too pronounced features. Roger's naturally sober manner never
lapsed into heaviness and much of his anxiety had been allayed by the
way in which his aunt had not only welcomed the news of his
prospective son, but was determined to help at what was undoubtedly a
crisis in his affairs. Sarah Greene was lost in the pleasure of the
moment. As she looked at Roger and Mary and thought of them at
Lynton, her heart was warm and her mind at peace.
"My dear children," she said towards the end of the dinner, "I'm very
pleased with you both; I want you to be very happy."
"This really is a celebration," said Mary excitedly, "we are enjoying
ourselves."
But Roger lifted his glass, and looking at Mrs. Greene smiled
charmingly.
"I'd like you to drink to our friendship, Aunt Sarah," he said. "I'm
thirty-two now, and I've appreciated you for quite twenty years. Our
relationship is something I value very highly."
For a moment the emotional tension was high. Rare tears sprang to
Sarah Greene's eyes.
"My dear Roger," she stammered, "my dear boy. It is so sweet of you
to say that; I'm getting old and I need your affection."
She stopped uncertainly and Roger saw that her usually imperturbable
face was blurred and twisted; the face of an old woman.
Before he had clearly taken in her sudden change of feature Mary
intervened.
"But, Aunt Sarah, we never think of you as old; you have such a
modern point of view."
Sarah Greene steadied herself and regained her normal tranquil
expression.
"I must be getting old," she announced, "because you're making me
feel quite sentimental. In fact the sooner we get off to the theatre
the better."
She rose and went with Mary to fetch her cloak, perfectly in command
of herself again, but a cold breath of foreboding had touched Roger.
All evening, at the theatre listening to the play, during the
intervals while he talked to his aunt and his wife, even in the taxi
driving home, he was teased by the recollection of Mrs. Greene's
face. He felt as if he had been given a clue to some puzzle, but not
a final clue that would unravel it.
Later, as he was falling asleep, he thought contentedly: well anyhow
she'll be here for ten days; perhaps she'll tell me; I might be able
to help, whatever it is.