“I don’t see how you can tell so much from hearing him make a few foolish remarks about some roses!” Roberta’s face was carefully averted.

“Oh, it wasn’t what he said, it’s what he is!  It shows in his face.  I never saw purpose come out so in a face as it has in his in the time that we’ve known him.  Besides, we began by taking him for nothing but a society man, and we were mistaken in that from the beginning.  Stephen has been telling me some things Louis told him.”

“I know.  About the hospital and the children.”

“Yes.  Isn’t it interesting?  And that’s been going on for years; it’s not a new pose for our benefit.  I’ve no doubt there are lots of other things, if we knew them.  But—­oh, Rob, his grandfather says he bought the little head in colour because he thought it looked like Gordon.  I’m going to send him the last photograph right away.  Rob, there’s Forbes Westcott!”

“Where?”

“Right ahead.  Shall we stop and take him in?  Of course he’s on his way to see you, as usual.  How he does anything in his own office—­”

“James!” Roberta leaned forward and spoke to the coachman.  “Turn down this street—­quickly, please.  Don’t look, Rosy—­don’t!  Let’s not go straight home; let’s drive a while.  It—­it’s such a lovely day!”

“Why, Rob!  I thought—­”

“Please don’t think anything.  I’m trying not to.”

Rosamond impulsively put her white-gloved hand on Roberta’s.  “I don’t believe you are succeeding,” she whispered daringly.  “Particularly since—­this morning!”

CHAPTER XXII

ROBERTA WAKES EARLY

Midsummer Day!  Roberta woke with the thought in her mind, as it had been the last in her mind when she had gone to sleep.  She had lain awake for a long time the night before, watching a strip of moonlight which lay like flickering silver across her wall.  Who would have found it easy to sleep, with the consciousness beating at her brain that on the morrow something momentous was as surely going to happen as that the sun would rise?  Did she want it to happen?  Would she rather not run away and prevent its happening?  There was no doubt that, being a woman, she wanted to run away.  At the same time—­being a woman—­she knew that she would not run.  Something would stay her feet.

With wide-open eyes on this Midsummer morning she lay, as she had lain the night before, regarding without attention the early sunlight flooding the room where moonlight had lain a few hours ago.  Her bare, round arms, from which picturesque apologies for sleeves fell back, were thrown wide upon her pillows, her white throat and shoulders gleamed below the loose masses of her hair, her heart was beating a trifle more rapidly than was natural after a night of repose.

It was very early, as a little clock upon a desk announced—­half after five.  Yet some one in the house was up, for Roberta heard a light footfall outside her door.  There followed a soft sound which drew her eyes that way; she saw something white appear beneath the door—­in the old house the sills were not tight.  The white rectangle was obviously a letter.