And the sleeping scullerymaid smiled also.

CHAPTER XIII

SIR DAVID’S MEMORY

Lady Rose Bright was faintly disturbed on Tuesday morning, and came into Lady Groombridge’s sitting-room after Mrs. Delaport Green and Molly had left the castle too preoccupied to notice the tall figure of Grosse in a far window.

This room had happily escaped all Georgian gorgeousness of decoration, and the backs of the books, a fine eighteenth-century collection, stood flush to the walls.  The long room was all white except for the books, the flowered chintz covers, some fine bronze statuettes, and a few bowls of roses.

Lady Rose moved mechanically towards the empty fire-place.

It was one thing to try not to dislike Miss Dexter, and to see her in a haze of Christian love; it was another to realise that, while she herself had slept most comfortably, Molly had not been to bed at all because the little kitchenmaid was in pain.  Humility and appreciation were rising in Rose’s mind, as half absently she gently raised a vase from the chimney-piece, and, turning to the light to examine its mark, saw Sir Edmund looking at her from his distant window.

A little, quite a little, flush came into her cheeks; not much deeper than the soft, healthy colour usual to them.  She examined the china with more attention.

The tall figure moved slowly, lazily, down the room towards her, holding the Times in one hand.

“It’s not Oriental,” he said, “it’s Lowestoft.”

“Ah!” said Rose absently.  She felt the eyes whose sadness had been apparent even to Mrs. Delaport Green looking her over with a quick scrutiny.

“Why, in your general scheme of benevolence, have you not thought it fit, during the last few days, to give me the chance of talking to you alone?” The tone was full of exasperation, but ironical too, as if he were faintly amused at himself for being exasperated.

“I don’t know.  Have I avoided being alone with you?” Rose had turned to the chimney-piece.

Edmund Grosse sank into a low chair, crossed his legs, and looked up at her defiantly, but with keen observation.

“It has been too absurd,” he said, “you have hardly spoken to me, and you know, of course, that I came here to see you.  I meant to go to the Riviera until I heard that you were coming here.”

“But you have been quite happy, quite amused.  There seemed no reason why I should interrupt.  And you know, Edmund, they said that you came here every year.”

“Well, I didn’t come only to see you,” he said, “as you like it better that way.  And now, it is about Miss Molly Dexter I want to speak to you.”

This time Rose gave a little ghost of a sigh, and looked at him with unutterable kindness.  She was feeling that, after all, she had come second in his consciousness—­after Miss Dexter, whom she could not like, but who had sat up all night with the kitchenmaid.