Her brother George, the eldest son, sat on her right.  George was of middle height, with a red-brown, clean-shaved face and solid jaw.  His eyes were grey; he had firm lips, and darkish, carefully brushed hair, a little thin on the top, but with that peculiar gloss seen on the hair of some men about town.  His clothes were unostentatiously perfect.  Such men may be seen in Piccadilly at any hour of the day or night.  He had been intended for the Guards, but had failed to pass the necessary examination, through no fault of his own, owing to a constitutional inability to spell.  Had he been his younger brother Gerald, he would probably have fulfilled the Pendyce tradition, and passed into the Army as a matter of course.  And had Gerald (now Captain Pendyce) been George the elder son, he might possibly have failed.  George lived at his club in town on an allowance of six hundred a year, and sat a great deal in a bay-window reading Ruff’s “Guide to the Turf.”

He raised his eyes from the menu and looked stealthily round.  Helen Bellew was talking to his father, her white shoulder turned a little away.  George was proud of his composure, but there was a strange longing in his face.  She gave, indeed, just excuse for people to consider her too good-looking for the position in which she was placed.  Her figure was tall and supple and full, and now that she no longer hunted was getting fuller.  Her hair, looped back in loose bands across a broad low brow, had a peculiar soft lustre.

There was a touch of sensuality about her lips.  The face was too broad across the brow and cheekbones, but the eyes were magnificent—­ice-grey, sometimes almost green, always luminous, and set in with dark lashes.

There was something pathetic in George’s gaze, as of a man forced to look against his will.

It had been going on all that past summer, and still he did not know where he stood.  Sometimes she seemed fond of him, sometimes treated him as though he had no chance.  That which he had begun as a game was now deadly earnest.  And this in itself was tragic.  That comfortable ease of spirit which is the breath of life was taken away; he could think of nothing but her.  Was she one of those women who feed on men’s admiration, and give them no return?  Was she only waiting to make her conquest more secure?  These riddles he asked of her face a hundred times, lying awake in the dark.  To George Pendyce, a man of the world, unaccustomed to privation, whose simple creed was “Live and enjoy,” there was something terrible about a longing which never left him for a moment, which he could not help any more than he could help eating, the end of which he could not see.  He had known her when she lived at the Firs, he had known her in the hunting-field, but his passion was only of last summer’s date.  It had sprung suddenly out of a flirtation started at a dance.