“No, of course not—no news at all.” Mrs. Shenstone recovered quickly, and wiped her eyes. “Come in, dear— you’re not a bit late. George is going to make some cocktails. Luncheon will be ready in a minute. I must just go and see about the flowers—”

She hurried away, blowing her nose briskly as she went.

CHAPTER EIGHT

HILARY’S impulse too was to escape from the room now. He had had a few revelations, certainly, and he was pretty sure that more would follow if he remained where he was. He reminded himself that of course he was outside all the laws now. What he did now didn’t matter. Or did it?

Suppose Alice didn’t know that she had only just missed making a mistake—the same sort of mistake his mother had made. Suppose even after she was free, she failed to take the proper advantage of her release. Could he still influence her somehow, if he tried? Apparently he could get through to people a little—make them answer him, badger them into saying things they wouldn’t ordinarily say, leave them forever wondering why they had spoken as they did. Perhaps with practice he would get better at it. Perhaps he had a power which was really worth cultivating—the power of disturbing people’s minds from within, so that they thought things out a little differently than if they were allowed to go on fooling themselves. He wondered how far it would work.

Was George the right one for Alice, after all? Just how did she feel about George? If he had come back from India in the usual way he might never have known. He had the chance to know now — to know exactly where he stood — would have stood, that is. It was a desolate thought as he faced it, that he might learn more about Alice in the next five minutes than if they had lived out the rest of their lives together....

She stood looking after his mother — slim and straight and fair and desirable, her pale gold hair gleaming in sculptured curls round her halo hat. Her make-up was always exquisite, and the familiar fragrance which always clung about her reached him where he stood. She was lovely — lovelier than he had ever realized before it was too late. If he had come home on leave this summer, and found her looking like this, surely he would have had the good sense to urge a date for their wedding? And what would she have said to that—now that George had come into it? He felt he had to know.

George had dumped the ice into the White Lady hastily and was now performing tunes with the shaker as though the accumulation of frost on its outside was the most important thing in the world to him. And perhaps it was.

“Carry on, George. Now’s your chance. Who’s stopping you?” suggested Hilary.