"No-my headquarters are at Worthing for the time being. I have to be near Runhill to look after things. I can quite easily run over."
"Then it's a fixed engagement…And meanwhile, you still remain adamant?"
Her own question seemed to agitate her, for her bosom rose and fell. Judge summed her up in his mind as a spoilt and capricious young woman of fortune, who was totally unaccustomed to being baulked even in her most unnecessary whims.
"It's exceedingly unpleasant for me, Miss Loment, but I'm afraid I must reply in the affirmative. If circumstances permit me later on to change my decision…"
"It would be too late. In point of fact, the moment my aunt has your verdict we shall leave Brighton. We're only waiting for that. But I shall leave you to tell her yourself, so as not to interfere with our little pleasure-party."
"Then your permanent residence is not in Brighton?"
"Oh, no."
Judge contracted his brows. "It's a strange fact, but it has always been my disappointing lot to fall in with really pleasant acquaintances just when it is too late."
"It does seem to happen like that very often. Perhaps it's because the pleasure doesn't have time to wear off…Of course, if you were to leave the question of your house in abeyance we might still see something of each other-especially since you are staying so close at hand. But that wouldn't be quite the right thing, I expect?"
"Mrs. Moor would hardly consent to postpone it indefinitely."
"Then that's no good…Anyhow, don't write her, Mr. Judge. She can very well wait till Friday."
He got up to go. Isbel rose, too, and held out her hand. It was white and elegant in shape, but was ink-stained from her correspondence. Judge continued holding it while he went on talking.
"I've no right to ask such a thing, Miss Loment, but I'm interested, and perhaps you won't mind telling me. You said you are to be married; is it, by any chance, to my friend Mr. Stokes?"
"Yes." She coloured nervously, and withdrew her hand.
"Thanks! And my I venture to add my congratulations to those you have doubtless received from friends of longer standing? He is a very pleasant, sensible young fellow, and, from what I know of him, will certainly make an admirable husband."
"Thank you, Mr. Judge! My only fear is that I may not make as admirable a wife."
Judge laughed courteously. "All I have to say to that is that I consider Mr. Stokes a very lucky individual-very lucky indeed!"
Isbel felt so strangely confused that she could not bring out another word. They passed into the hall, where Judge, with leisurely dignity, put on his gloves and buttoned his coat, while the girl watched him. At last he bade her a smiling "Good-day," and went out stiffly through the swing-doors into the rain. She remained for a moment standing by the office, looking after him with a peculiar little smile.
On arriving upstairs, her aunt gave her a keen stare.
"You've got a very flushed very, child."
"I ran upstairs."
"What a long time you've been with that man. What did he want?"
"Oh, he's frantically long-winded. The long and short of it is, I've asked him to dinner on Friday, to meet you. It seems he'd rather discuss it with you personally."
"Upon my soul! Why in the world should we dine him?…I had a presentiment you would do something silly."
"Oh, he's perfectly presentable. Besides, he'll be glad to meet Marshall again. I had to make some definite arrangement."
Mrs. Moor growled in her throat. "Well, the point is, are we to get the house, or not?"
"I fancy he still hasn't made up his mind," replied Isbel indifferently.
Her aunt made sundry inarticulate sounds, indicative of her vexation, and prepared to rise.
Chapter VII THE DINNER-PARTY
At seven o'clock on Friday evening the party of six sat down to table in the public room. Judge found himself between the two girls, while Mrs. Moor had the two brothers for neighbors; Isbel faced Marshall across the table, and Blanche her own husband.
Blanche, the tall, pale, slender, fashionable blonde, looked a creature of fine clay in her dinner-frock of foam-blue and silver. She drew many glances from the other diners in the room, and for a long time Marshall and Judge entered into a sort of competition for her favour. Isbel was amused, rather than otherwise. With regard to "personal property," there was a perfect understanding between her friend and herself, and she had already, earlier in the day, intimated to Blanche what her wishes were concerning Judge.
While waiting for her to disentangle herself, she occupied the time by chatting with Roger on indifferent topics. There could be nothing very exciting in that; he was a nice man, but she was quite well aware that for him only one woman in the world existed-namely, his own wife. His profession was historical research-fortunately, he did not rely upon it for an income-but, as everyone posseses a dual nature, his favourite role in society was that of Mephistopheles, which he undertook consistently. He was four years older than Marshall, and not unlike him in person, though built on a small scale. He had the same broad, pugnacious, good-humoured face, but it was more humorous and sympathetic, and the eyes were livelier.
Isbel's new wine-red gown had the effect of investing her face with a strange luminous pallor, which almost took the place of beauty. At intervals Judge turned to her in a puzzled way, but Blanche's fascinations were more obvious, and the pear was not yet ripe.
It was not until the meal was half-way through and a few bottles had been emptied, that the talk became loud and general. Mrs. Moor was fidgeting about Runhill Court, and began to think that she would never have an opportunity of opening that business. She could hardly start negotiations at table, but she told herself that at least she ought to try to find out how things lay. At the first lull in the conversation, therefore, she addressed Judge directly by name, and when he looked up, rather surprised, she introduced the subject of Sherrup.
Judge raised his brows. "I know who you mean, but we've never met. There has been some correspondence between us. He was making the trip to England, and wished to visit my place. It seems hos wife's people at one time owned the estate."
"So he told us. It was actually in your house that we met him."
"Thumping your piano, incidentally," added Marshall.
Judge shot him a glance of inquiry.
"Hammering out Mendelssohn," explained the underwriter.
"It was one of Bethoven's Symphonies, to be exact," corrected Isbel, with a smile. "The Seventh. Are you musical, Mr. Judge?"
"Not very, I fear. You, of course, are?"
"But why 'of course'? Am I so transparent a person?"
Roger tossed off a full glass of Sauterne. "Some women have accomplishments. Billy is one of the latter sort."
"Honey with a sting in it, Roger. Those of us who have no brains you are kind enough to console with fascination. But perhaps I have neither."
"Or perhaps both," suggested Judge, gallantly. "I for one, see no reason why they should not go together. Many of the cleverest women in history have been the most fascinating."
"But history has been written by men, and men aren't the most enlightened critics where women are concerned. All that will have to be re-written by qualified feminine experts some day."
Judge laughed. "But, in point of fact, men happen to be the best critics of feminine human nature. A woman's natural impulse is to look for faults in her sisters; a man's first thought is to look for noble qualities."
"It may be very chivalrous, but I don't call it criticism," rejoined Isbel quickly. "You're not in the least likely ever to understand a woman's character that way."
"If faults constitute a character-no. But my contention is that it's this constant dwelling on faults which obscures our view of a woman's real underlying nature. In this sense men are the best observers of your sex."
"Let me translate," put in Roger. "It's good policy to credit a woman with virtues, for if she hasn't got them already, she will have as soon as she clearly understands that other people believe that she has. Does that go?"