It was with quite a little pang of concern that she saw him hobbling
down the street towards her; and when he was once more seated, she told
the chauffeur: "To the station, Frith. Quick, please!" and began:
"You are not to be trusted a bit. What were you doing?"
But Courtier smiled grimly over the head of Ann, in silence.
At this, almost the first time she had ever yet encountered a distinct
rebuff, Barbara quivered, as though she had been touched lightly with
a whip. Her lips closed firmly, her eyes began to dance. "Very well,
my dear," she thought. But presently stealing a look at him, she became
aware of such a queer expression on his face, that she forgot she was
offended.
"Is anything wrong, Mr. Courtier?"
"Yes, Lady Barbara, something is very wrong--that miserable mean thing,
the human tongue."
Barbara had an intuitive knowledge of how to handle things, a kind of
moral sangfroid, drawn in from the faces she had watched, the talk she
had heard, from her youth up. She trusted those intuitions, and letting
her eyes conspire with his over Ann's brown hair, she said:
"Anything to do with Mrs. N-----?" Seeing "Yes" in his eyes, she added
quickly: "And M-----?"
Courtier nodded.
"I thought that was coming. Let them babble! Who cares?"
She caught an approving glance, and the word, "Good!"
But the car had drawn up at Bucklandbury Station.
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