And of this Hilary Blachland was thoroughly aware.

They sorted themselves into their places. Hilary, by a kind of process
of natural selection, found himself seated next to Lyn. Hermia was
nearly opposite, and next to her three of the Earle progeny--
preternaturally well-behaved. But on her other side was a vacant chair,
and a place laid as though for somebody. There was plenty of talk going
on, which enabled Blachland to keep out of it and observe.

First of all, what the deuce was she doing there? Hermia masquerading
as instructor of youth! Oh, Heavens, the joke would have been enough to
send him into a fit, had he only heard of it! But there she was, and it
would be safe to say that there was not a living being on the wide
earth, however detestable, whose presence would not have been warmly
welcome to him in comparison with that of this one seated there
opposite. What on earth was her game, he wondered, and what had become
of Spence? Here she was, passing as a widow under the name of Fenham.
And this was the unknown fair who had been the subject of their jokes,
and Lyn's disapproval! Why, even on the way over that morning, Bayfield
had been full of chaff, pre-calculating the effect of her charms upon
himself. Great Heavens, yes! It was all too monstrous--too grotesque
entirely.

"Are you still feeling cold?"

It was Lyn who had turned to him, amid all the chatter, and there was a
sort of indefinably confidential ring in her voice, begotten of close
friendship and daily intercourse. Was it something of the kind that
softened his as he replied to her? But even while he did so he met the
dark eyes opposite, the snap of which seemed to convey that to their
owner nothing could go unobserved.

"Oh no, I'm quite all right now," he answered lightly. And then, under
cover of all the fanning talk that was going on between Earle and
Bayfield, he talked to Lyn, mostly about matters they had discussed
before. A sort of ironical devil moved him. He would let this woman
opposite, imperceptibly watching every look, weighing every word,
understand that she and her malevolence, whether dormant or active,
counted absolutely nothing with him.

There was the sound of a footstep outside, and the door was opened.

"Awful sorry I'm so late, Mrs Earle," cried a voice--a young and
refined English voice--as its owner entered. "How d'you do, Miss
Bayfield--Er--how d'you do?"

This to the only one who was personally