"Half–past ten, by Jove! Well, we'll make the sport an excuse. They wouldn't want to see me the first evening, at any rate. Gone to bed, probably." He skirted by the open French windows of the drawing–room. "No, they haven't. They look very comfy in there."
He could see his father in his own particular chair, the mother in hers, and the back of a girl at the piano by the big potpourri–jar. The gardens looked half divine in the moonlight, and he turned down through the roses to finish his pipe.
A prelude–ended, and there floated out a voice of the kind that in his childhood he used to call "creamy" a full, true contralto; and this is the song that he heard, every syllable of it:
At the last echo he was aware that his mouth was dry and unknown pulses were beating in the roof of it. The housekeeper, who would have it that he must have fallen in and caught a chill, was waiting to catch him on the stairs, and, since he neither saw nor answered her, carried a wild tale abroad that brought his mother knocking at the door.
"Anything happened, dear? Harper said she thought you weren't—"
"No; it's nothing. I'm all right, mummy. Please don't bother."
He did not recognise his own voice, but that was a small matter beside what he was considering. Obviously, most obviously, the whole coincidence was crazy lunacy. He proved it to the satisfaction of Major George Cottar, who was going up to town to–morrow to hear a lecture on the supply of ammunition in the field; and having so proved it, the soul and brain and heart and body of Georgie cried joyously: "That's the Lily Lock girl—the Lost Continent girl—the Thirty–Mile Ride girl—the Brushwood girl! I know her!"
He waked, stiff and cramped in his chair, to reconsider the situation by sunlight, when it did not appear normal. But a man must eat, and he went to breakfast, his heart between his teeth, holding himself severely in hand.
"Late, as usual," said the mother. "'My boy, Miss Lacy."
A tall girl in black raised her eyes to his, and Georgie's life training deserted him—just as soon as he realised that she did not know. He stared coolly and critically. There was the abundant black hair, growing in a widow's peak, turned back from the forehead, with that peculiar ripple over the right ear; there were the grey eyes set a little close together; the short upper lip, resolute chin, and the known poise of the head. There was also the small well–cut mouth that had kissed him.
"Georgie—dear!" said the mother, amazedly, for Miriam was flushing under the stare.
"I—I beg your pardon!" he gulped. "I don't know whether the mother has told you, but I'm rather an idiot at times, specially before I've had my breakfast. It's—it's a family failing." He turned to explore among the hot–water dishes on the sideboard, rejoicing that she did not know—she did not know.
His conversation for the rest of the meal was mildly insane, though the mother thought she had never seen her boy look half so handsome. How could any girl, least of all one of Miriam's discernment, forbear to fall down and worship? But deeply Miriam was displeased. She had never been stared at in that fashion before, and promptly retired into her shell when Georgie announced that he had changed his mind about going to town, and would stay to play with Miss Lacy if she had nothing better to do.
"Oh, but don't let me throw you out. I'm at work. I've things to do all the morning."
"What possessed Georgie to behave so oddly?" the mother sighed to herself. "Miriam's a bundle of feelings—like her mother."
"You compose—don't you? Must be a fine thing to be able to do that. ['Pig–oh, pig!' thought Miriam.] I think I heard you singin' when I came in last night after fishin'. All about a Sea of Dreams, wasn't it? [Miriam shuddered to the core of the soul that afflicted her.] Awfully pretty song. How d' you think of such things?"
"You only composed the music, dear, didn't you?"
"The words too. I'm sure of it," said Georgie, with a sparkling eye. No; she did not know.
"Yeth; I wrote the words too." Miriam spoke slowly, for she knew she lisped when she was nervous.
"Now how could you tell, Georgie?" said the mother, as delighted as though the youngest major in the army were ten years old, showing off before company.
"I was sure of it, somehow. Oh, there are heaps of things about me, mummy, that you don't understand. Looks as if it were goin' to be a hot day—for England. Would you care for a ride this afternoon, Miss Lacy? We can start out after tea, if you'd like it."
Miriam could not in decency refuse, but any woman might see she was not filled with delight.
"That will be very nice, if you take the Bassett Road. It will save me sending Martin down to the village," said the mother, filling in gaps.
Like all good managers, the mother had her one weakness—a mania for little strategies that should economise horses and vehicles. Her men–folk complained that she turned them into common carriers, and there was a legend in the family that she had once said to the pater on the morning of a meet: "If you should kill near Bassett, dear, and if it isn't too late, would you mind just popping over and matching me this?"
"I knew that was coming. You'd never miss a chance, mother. If it's a fish or a trunk I won't." Georgie laughed.
"It's only a duck. They can do it up very neatly at Mallett's," said the mother, simply. "You won't mind, will you? We'll have a scratch dinner at nine, because it's so hot."