THE RETURN
muttered extenuations were not addressed to Lydia.
They heard the tea-tray rattling through the hall. Lydia turned the light out, and they prepared to descend. Mrs. Tottenham pawed her in the twilight. "You needn't mention to Mr. Tottenham I've opened any of my letters. I'll be showing him the rest. This one was rather particular—from a friend of mine, it was." An appeal still quavered in her husky tones which her paid companion had never heard before.
From the drawing-room they saw Mr. Tottenham scurrying across the grass, drawn tea-wards by the lighted window. There was something quick and furtive about him; Lydia had never been able to determine whether he dodged and darted as pursuer or pursued.
"Wretched evening, wretched." He chattered his way across the crowded room. "Been talking to Porloch—garden's in an awful way; shrubberies like a jungle. Did 'e sell the apples?"
He darted the inquiry at Lydia, turning his head sharply towards her, with his eyes
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