It might have been supposed that Dolly would be anxious to make amends for her injustice. When Bernard came in, saying that Mrs. Merton had invited them both to dinner the next day but one, and that he had accepted her kindness, she should have been pleased; in place of which she declared that she could not go. She had no dress, she said. Bernard pointed out that she had dined with the Mertons before. “Oh yes,” said Dolly; “but one can’t wear the same thing twice over,” and she stood upon her argument till Bernard calmly told her that he should go and she could stay. Dolly came near to a quarrel with him; she did actually provoke one with her father; and then she went to bed.
In the morning she awoke reasonable and sweeter-tempered, and begged her father’s pardon in words, and Bernard’s in deeds by making hot cakes for breakfast. Peace reigned over the house of Fanes, except in Dolly’smind, which was still disturbed. For yesterday, in the flush of her indignation and reasonable anger, she had taken a step that she could not retrace. Waiting under the white sign-post at Dove Green for the smith’s report on her shattered dog-cart, Dolly had made up her mind upon one point, and had clinched the matter at once in the post-office adjoining the smithy; and now the contemplation of the consequences filled her with lively discomfort. She calculated that these consequences could not arrive for two days, or possibly three; she had two days to prepare; but how she was to do so presented a problem of weight. Dolly felt that she had made a fool of herself, a sensation disagreeable to a girl so proud as she; of all troubles she could least stomach humiliation. Then, also, she knew that her blunder would bring distress on Lucian, and was heartily sorry, for she loved him dearly. But there was another, darker thought which would stay in her mind, despite of reason and despite of resolution. Dolly had felt the merciless power of Farquhar’s strength; she feared his jealousy, cruel as the grave. Vainly she told herself that he was Lucian’s friend; he was her lover, but that had not shielded her. Imagination offered lurid pictures of a battle to the death between therivals. Vague ideas of sending Bernard out to Petit-Fays as peace-maker crossed her mind, but the irrepressible voice of common-sense pointed out that her brother’s attitude towards Noel Farquhar was not usually conciliatory; also that, even if she sent him at once, he could not possibly get there in time to do any good. In view of this last consideration, Dolly let the matter drop; but her mind was ill at ease.
Next evening when Bernard came down into the hall he found her waiting, muffled in a big white shawl. Bernard’s hands and head were too fully occupied with his white kid gloves to allow him to draw deductions, and he discerned nothing until she walked out in front of him; then he said:
“Thought you weren’t coming?”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
Z-z-p, a button jumped off. “Oh, dash the thing!” said Bernard, disgusted.
“I’ll do it,” said Dolly, taking his wrist. “What a pity it is your hands are so large. Mine are at least small, though I’ve spoiled the skin with hard work. What did you talk about in the train yesterday?”
“That temperance rot, most of the time.”
“You do waste your chances, Bernard.”
“Well, she seemed to like it.”
“Why didn’t you ask her to marry you? You mean to, don’t you?”
“All in good time; I’m in no such mighty hurry.”
“I knowIwouldn’t take you,” said Dolly, viciously linking the final button.
“I guess I shouldn’t be such a fool as to ask you,” responded her brother. “As it happens, I mean to get an answer out of her to-night.”
Dolly was silent. His name was the first word that rose to her lips: his Christian name, the usual preface of an appeal.
“Bernard.”
“Well?”
“Bernard, Angela Laurenson isn’t like me. You ought to be careful; it’s easy to hurt her feelings.”
“I know all about that.”
“Doyou?”
“Yes,” said Bernard. “I do. I’m not an idiot.”
Trying to draw sentimental confessions from Bernard was like trying to pull a worm out of its hole by the tail. Dolly felt that he was slipping away, and put one last question.
“You do really care for her, Bernard?”
He deliberated for a minute; a most literal truthfulness informed all Bernard’s assertions.
“Well, I wouldn’t jump down into the lions after her glove, like that chap in what’s-his-name,” he said at last: “because I call that silly. But if it was a question of her or me—I guess I’d give my life for hers. I’m not quite a fool, Dolly; I can manage for myself. I say, do you think I ought to keep on these beastly gloves at dinner? If they have birds or things of that kind, they’ll split down the back.”
Bernard had not been quite open with his sister. At that very moment Miss Laurenson was sitting in her room with her face in her hands and an outspread letter before her. She had received it in the afternoon, and thus it ran:
“Dear Miss Laurenson,—You showed yesterday that you did not want me to speak, so I am not going to bother you with a tête-à-tête. I am writing this instead, to tell you that Fanes brings in about three-fifty a year net, and in the past five years I have saved over a thousand out of this, which invested in Guaranteed Egyptians at four per cent. brings it up to four hundred. I also expect the value of the property to go up. My age is twenty-eight, and I am in sound health. I have a fairly good temper. I have not done anything that I should be ashamed of you seeing, barring getting tipsy half a dozen times before I was twenty, and carting manure. I used to poach on Merton’s land one time, but only when I thought he sold the game. I never have thought about any other girl but you. Will you, if you think you cantake me, just put some white roses in your dress to-night? If you wear red ones, I shall take it to mean No. I hope very much you won’t wear red ones. I am sorry I can’t send you any flowers, but our roses were all blighted this year, and anyway I know Merton has plenty in his garden.“Ever yours with devotion,“Bernard de Beaufort Fane.”
“Dear Miss Laurenson,—You showed yesterday that you did not want me to speak, so I am not going to bother you with a tête-à-tête. I am writing this instead, to tell you that Fanes brings in about three-fifty a year net, and in the past five years I have saved over a thousand out of this, which invested in Guaranteed Egyptians at four per cent. brings it up to four hundred. I also expect the value of the property to go up. My age is twenty-eight, and I am in sound health. I have a fairly good temper. I have not done anything that I should be ashamed of you seeing, barring getting tipsy half a dozen times before I was twenty, and carting manure. I used to poach on Merton’s land one time, but only when I thought he sold the game. I never have thought about any other girl but you. Will you, if you think you cantake me, just put some white roses in your dress to-night? If you wear red ones, I shall take it to mean No. I hope very much you won’t wear red ones. I am sorry I can’t send you any flowers, but our roses were all blighted this year, and anyway I know Merton has plenty in his garden.
“Ever yours with devotion,
“Bernard de Beaufort Fane.”
Having laughed over this letter till she cried, Angela was now almost ready to cry in good earnest. After great searchings of heart she had come to admit that Bernard was all the world to her; but she would much have preferred to renounce the world and remain her maiden self. Angela was a little ascetic. Though she loved him truly, it cost her a bitter struggle to admit a man into her life; especially a man such as Bernard, who would gently brush away all her delicate scruples and cobwebs of privacy, and take possession of her, body and soul. She could trust him to be gentle, but would he understand? To Angela, wifehood seemed a strange and terrible thing. She feared it—she feared its prelude of betrothal: seeing herself more clearly than at other times, she confessed that hers was the nature for obeying, Bernard’s for ruling. And how she should fare if her lover turned tyrant?
“I’ve brought your flowers,” Lal said,coming in with a cluster of white roses and ferns. They were prettily arranged, though a little stiff. But Angela looked doubtful.
“Don’t you care for them? I thought they went well with your dress.”
“I do like them; but—” Angela pushed over Bernard’s letter and looked away. Lal smiled as he read it.
“Well, and aren’t you going to wear them?”
“Shall I?”
“Are you in doubt?”
“Yes, rather.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid, Lal.”
“Is it that you don’t care—?”
Angela shook her head.
“Then you must wear them,” Lal said. He came to her and fastened them. Angela looked down at the roses and up at his face; suddenly she threw her arms round his neck.
“I’m a humbug, Lal,” she said. “You always ruled, not I.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes. And he will. And I’m afraid.”
Lal held her quietly. Presently he said: “I think you’re mistaken, Angel.”
“Doyou?” Angela said, looking up with tears on her lashes. “Do you really, Lal?”
“I do. Fane isn’t exactly an ogre, youknow.” Lal smiled. “I shall be quite ready to give you away to him.”
“And glad, too, I expect: ungrateful boy that you are!” Angela released herself, and began with unsteady fingers to pull out her crushed curls. “Wait till you’re married yourself, and see how you like it!”
“I see no immediate prospect of that,” said Lal. “And now, does it not occur to you that we might go down to dinner?”
Angela slipped her hand through his arm, and so they descended the stairs. They made a handsome couple, though Lal looked quieter and lazier even than was his wont. On the last step, Angela came to a pause of dismay; she coloured crimson, snatched her hand from Lal’s arm, and fled into the drawing-room. Lal hesitated; he also changed colour; finally, he made a very formal little bow, and followed his sister without speaking. Dolly and Bernard had just been admitted to the hall.
“I guess that chap’s gone cracked!” said Bernard, sotto voce. But Dolly held her peace.
There were present at the dinner only the house party, the Laurensons and Mrs. Prideaux, besides Dr. Maude, whose faint, acidulated cynicism, said Ella Merton, was like a sauce piquante. The voice of justice told Dolly thatshe must let Lal know he was out of disgrace, but it did not say that she was bound to explain herself; and so, after smiling at him and taking his hand when they met in the drawing-room, she eschewed his society like the very plague. She set herself to behave nicely; she said little, and that little discreetly, and kept under the wing of her hostess. She was amused to see that Angela Laurenson was pursuing the same tactics, except that she had chosen Maud Prideaux for her house of defence.
Dolly went down with Norman Merton, and found herself placed at table between him and Lal. She gave Lal the view of a neck as white as milk, and a rich sweep of chestnut hair glossed with light like the roll of a stream at a weir; and she talked to her host all the evening. Merton was shrewd and pleasant, and had plenty to say. Twice Lal addressed her: to his first speech she gave a brief, cool answer over her shoulder; to the second she gave no answer at all. Lal did not repeat his words, nor did he again try to catch her attention. He turned quietly to his partner; he could afford to be patient because he was resolute.
Bernard also was content to be patient, but within reasonable limits, which he felt that Angela had overpassed; she wore his roses, but she had not given him a word that evening.His partner at dinner was Maud Prideaux; and, following that simple strategy which goes by the name of cheek, he took her into his confidence and besought her help. Maud was already pledged to Angela, but that did not hinder her from deserting to Bernard’s side. She was a born match-maker. As soon as the men came up after dinner she proposed a moonlight excursion to see the lake. Mrs. Merton sighed forth a rapturous assent, sent her husband for cloaks, and apostrophised the stars in an impromptu verse. A French window led out to a balcony, from which steps ran down to the garden. Mrs. Merton went first, to show the way; Angela, whose eyes were quite blind in the dusk, was a few steps behind. Maud Prideaux shot Bernard a mischievous glance of invitation, stooped down, and carefully tied up a bow which had not come undone. In an instant Angela found her chaperon’s place usurped by a tall figure, which bent down and said, in a moving whisper:
“I guess you’d better take my arm or you’ll tumble down the steps.”
This time Angela did not refuse; she laid her fingers on his sleeve with a queer, wild thrill of feeling, half pleasure and half fear. Bernard put his own hand over hers. “I’m no end glad,” he said, quite simply.
Then he led her, trusting to his guidance for every step, down a lonely, mossy path through a copse of trees: to Bernard’s eyes the darkness was clear as daylight. When they were as far from the moonlit lake as the size of the garden would permit, he began to talk.
“I expect you’re pretty shy of taking me, aren’t you?” he said, gently.
“Rather. I—I should be—always—whoever it was.”
“I suppose girls are made like that.” Bernard paused to contemplate the strangeness of feminine nature. “But what I mean is that you feel it’s specially risky taking me, because you and I are so different. Don’t you?”
Angela said nothing.
“Dolly was trying to lecture me about that this evening,” Bernard pursued. “She was saying you aren’t like her. Well, I should think anybody could see that who wasn’t an ass. Dolly could walk twenty miles and come up smiling, and I shouldn’t let you do more than about two. And it’s just the same with your feelings. You want looking after, and taking care of, and that sort of thing.”
“I’m used to taking care of myself, and Lal, too,” Angela pointed out.
“Well, of course, you won’t do that anymore,” Bernard assured her, with calm authority. “Laurenson’ll have to shift for himself, he’s old enough; and I shall look after you. When we’re married, you know, I sha’n’t let you do the dairy work or any of the things Dolly does. We shall have to have another servant; but that won’t matter so much, as you’ve got some money of your own.”
“How do you know I have money of my own?”
“Mrs. Merton told Dolly you’d got eight hundred a year. Of course, one can’t put much faith in what she says, but there’s no smoke without a fire; so I guessed you had some. You have, haven’t you?”
“Mrs. Merton never exaggerates. I have what she said I had.”
“Have you really eight hundred a year? It’ll come in handy at Fanes.”
“I hope you didn’t ask me for my money,” Angela said, with a forlorn laugh.
“I shouldn’t be such a fool.”
“Why not?”
“I’d rather be comfortable than rich, any day. I wouldn’t saddle myself with a girl I didn’t like, not if she had ten thousand a year. I can’t stand rows. I suppose if it got too bad you could arrange a separation, but I’d sooner lose the money than have the bother ofthat. A man should keep his private affairs out of people’s mouths.”
“I’m glad you don’t think I shall make rows,” said Angela. “But why did you want me, then?”
“Well, I don’t know.” Bernard paused and meditated. “It wasn’t because of your money, nor yet because you were pretty; I know that. I only know, when I saw you that night, I felt like the chap in Tennyson. You know; he saw the girl at home in her oldest dress, looking no end shabby, and he just said to himself:Here, by God’s rood, is the one maid for me.Well, I said the same; I made up my mind I’d have you, right away.”
“Suppose I’d refused you?”
“I didn’t think you would, in the long-run.”
“Oh!”
“I don’t mean exactly that,” Bernard hastily added, feeling that he had not put the case quite prettily. “I mean that I had a kind of idea all along that you liked me, just as I liked you, directly we met.”
Under the leaves and the soft summer stars they paced the path together. It was so dark that Angela bent her head to avoid an empty shadow, and walked straight into the brush of soft leaves which an elm-tree droopedacross the way. She stood still while Bernard freed her hair: expeditiously he did it, with no tender dallyings, and she was truly thankful. Angela was beginning to see what life would be to Bernard Fane’s wife. Stable as the English soil beneath their feet, temperate as this English summer night, with no tropic storms and no yawning earthquakes, so would his love be; the cupboards in his house held no skeletons. All Angela’s adventurous thoughts of freedom were coming home to shelter under a man’s protecting care. It was true that Bernard had developed a talent for saying what should not be said; but that Angela resentfully ascribed to Dolly’s interference. She saw herself darning her stalwart protector’s socks by the fireside. The picture was touching and beautiful. Yet—
“I hope you’ll like Fanes,” Bernard said, tucking her hand comfortably under his arm. “It’s all right now, but it’s a bit lonely in winter.”
“We might spend the winter in London.”
“There’s no one but me to see to things; I couldn’t get away.”
“Couldn’t you have a manager?”
“Managers aren’t to be trusted. If you want a thing well done, I guess you must do it yourself.”
“But do you propose to stay at Fanes all the year round?”
“No. You’ll want some sort of a holiday, of course. I dare say I could get away for a fortnight or so in January; things are pretty slack then.”
Angela was silent for a space; then she said, with some firmness: “I’m afraid I shall have to be a good deal away, then; I must be in London sometimes to attend meetings and look after the different societies in which I am interested. I shall ask Mrs. Prideaux to put me up; that is pleasanter than going to a hotel.”
“Do you mean, you go up without me?”
“As you can’t get away, I suppose I must.”
“I shouldn’t like that at all.”
“Why not?”
“It’s jolly bad for husband and wife not to be together. A woman’s place is with her husband. Besides, people are safe to talk, and that’s a thing I can’t stand. I guess I’ll have to come up with you when you’re obliged to go. I dare say you’ll chuck a good many of the things after we’re married; girls generally do.”
“Can’t you trust me in London alone?” Angela said, in a very quiet voice.
“No, I can’t—” Bernard was beginning, inall innocence, wishing to point out to Angela the perils of the London streets, where she had lived all her life, when she suddenly amazed him by withdrawing her hand very decidedly, and facing him in an unmistakably belligerent attitude.
“In that case, Mr. Fane,” she said, her voice trembling with indignation, “I think we had better part at once.”
“Why, Angela!”
“Don’t call me that, please. There are your flowers.” She cast the roses at his feet with a dramatic gesture. “Your idea of a wife seems to be a—a kind of carpet for you to walk on. You don’t know why you wanted to marry me; I’m sure I don’t know, either, since you say it was not for my money. You evidently don’t think I’m good for anything useful, and you’ve told me that I’m not ornamental. I’m not fit to do any of the things Dolly does; I’m not to walk two miles without your permission; I’m not to be trusted to go about in London at all, and you even expect me to give up the work I’ve been doing for years, andcando! Thank you, Mr. Fane, the prospect is not sufficiently attractive. I must trouble you to look for a wife who is willing to fall in with your peculiar tastes.I’mnot!”
She turned her back and swept away, leaving Bernard staring. He ran after her and caught her up.
“Look here, Angela—”
“Let me alone at once!”
“But you don’t understand—”
“I understand quite enough.Youdon’t understand how to behave.”
“Angela, I do love you.”
“I don’t love you, and I don’t want to!”
She broke away, and he let her go. For five minutes he stood quite still. Bernard had no lack of wits, and he now saw his mistakes quite plainly, the very mistakes against which Dolly had tried to warn him. It was the bitterest blow he had ever had in his life, and the minutes he spent there alone were primed with salutary reflections.
Angela, running out of the wood, came upon Maud Prideaux, who was enjoying a moonlight flirtation with Norman Merton.
“My dear child!”
“I—beg your pardon,” said Angela, breathless and confused. Maud gave her a sharp look. She turned on her companion. “Mr. Merton, you can run away now and play; I’m going to talk to Angela. Mind, the bet stands.”
“All right, Mrs. Prideaux,” Merton answered,laughing as he went away. Maud scanned Angela’s discomposed countenance with a sparkling eye.
“What have you been doing?” she asked, in her usual drawl.
Angela did not reply.
“Dear, dear! Refusing Bernard Fane, upon my honour! Really, Angela, it’s too bad to lead the poor man on as you did and then throw him over.”
“I didnotlead him on.”
Maud shrugged her shoulders. “You’re a shocking little flirt, my dear, but I really think you might have let the poor barbarian go. I shouldn’t wonder if the gardener swept him up to-morrow, with his throat cut. There’s poor Lal, too, ready to shoot himself. The way you young people behave is quite dreadful; I should have been ashamed to do so.”
As Mrs. Prideaux before her marriage had been the most open and shameless flirt, Angela could not but resent this remark. “Ineverflirted with Mr. Fane,” she said.
“How about his roses? I see you’ve given them back to him.”
This was purely a guess, based on an observation of glances during dinner and the absence of the flowers from Angela’s corsage. Miss Laurenson grew warmly red, and said nothing.Maud’s kindly inquisitive eyes searched her; she tapped her on the shoulder with her fan. “Come, tell me all about it. My dear child, what have you been doing? You’re like Lot’s wife, all tears.”
“Thank you, I’m not salt yet,” said Angela, whose eyes were still quite dry.
“Wasn’t it Lot’s wife? I don’t pretend to be clever; it wasn’t the fashion for girls to know anything in my day. What have you been saying to Bernard Fane?”
Sure of an interested listener, Angela told her tale. At its close she got a surprising shock. “Do you know what you ought to do now?” said Mrs. Prideaux.
“What?”
“Go right back and beg his pardon.”
“Maud! I’d rather die!”
“Yes, and to-morrow you’ll be dying—dying to go and do it, but it’ll be too late then. You’re simply desperately in love with him, can’t say his name without blushing—yes, there she goes, the colour of a poppy! The child says she’s not in love with him! Well, well!”
“I hate him!” Angela declared, hiding her crimson cheeks in her hands.
“My dear child, hatred’s the back door into love. Think of him, lying on the damp groundwith his throat cut!—such a nice throat, too! He’s adorably handsome, for a barbarian. Of course, he drops an h or so now and then—”
“He never does.”
“Doesn’t he? Well, no doubt you know better than I do. I wouldn’t have your conscience, Angela.”
“He was very rude to me.”
“Asked you to marry him, didn’t he? Shockin’ presumption!”
“I only told him the truth.”
“When I refused a man, I always did it nicely and tried to spare his feelings. I don’t see why you are so angry with the poor man; I’m sure it was very brave of him to fall in love with you.”
Silence for a little while. Angela said at last: “Maud, do you really think I ought to beg his pardon?”
“Haven’t the slightest doubt of it, my dear.”
“It will look as though I wanted—”
“Exactly what you do want. You’ve been talking a great deal about the rights of women all your life; haven’t you found out yet that a woman’s best right is to obey her husband?”
“No, I haven’t, and I don’t think it is.”
“Then it’s time you learned that it is. We aren’t made for anything else, my dear, you and I; we’re ordinary women, and we mustmake the best of it. You can’t imitate Dolly Fane, so don’t try to.”
“It’s the very last thing I should do!”
“Well, go and beg the barbarian’s pardon, then; she would never do that.” Maud had a grudge against Dolly because she disliked gossip.
“Ican’t!”
“Nonsense, my dear child! You’re going to. There’s your path; run along, like a good little girl, and be sure you don’t tumble on your nose.—And there’s half my bet won!”
Maud had sent her off with a maternal pat, and Angela found herself going obediently. Instinct led truer than reason. Down the shadowy path she came blindly hurrying, and ran full against Bernard, leaning motionless against a tree.
“Angela!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Angela said, with a sob.
Thus was peace established; but Angela soon found that in yielding she had stooped to conquer: her bear was transformed into a lamb. She might live at Timbuctoo, if it pleased her; she might wander through London alone till one in the morning, though plainly Bernard did not like the prospect.
“But, Bernard, why shouldn’t I?” Angela cried.
“Because you’re so awfully pretty,” was the surprising answer.
“Bernard! I thought you said I wasn’t pretty!”
“I don’t know where you got that idea from.”
“You said you didn’t want me for my looks.”
“Neither do I; I should want you just the same if you were like a gorilla.”
“Butdoyou think me pretty?”
“I should hope so!”
“As pretty as Dolly?”
“Dolly? Dolly’s a milkmaid and you’re a princess. Any one can see there’s no comparison. Dolly’s well enough, barring her carroty hair; but you’re so awfully distinguished-looking. I don’t see why you want me to tell you this; you must know it already.”
“I like compliments—I expect compliments; that’s one of the things you have to learn.”
“It’ll come pretty easy. I shall only have to say out what I think.”
“If you talk like that,” said Angela, “perhaps I’ll let you take me about London, after all. Now we must go back to the house; it’s getting shamefully late.”
“I don’t want to go up yet.”
“I do.”
Bernard looked down at her and laughed.“All right,” he said; “I guess you mean to have your own way.”
They came together slowly up the garden. The gold rectangle of the uncurtained window shone out in the dusk; the figures of Dolly and of Mrs. Merton appeared on the balcony, silhouetted against the light. Ella soon went in, but Dolly lingered, gazing at the dusky woods and the diamond gleam of the lake. Suddenly another figure came swiftly up the steps. Dolly turned at once towards the window; the lamplight fell on her face. Lal laid his hand on her arm and spoke in her ear: a single sentence, no more. Bernard saw his sister turn crimson. She answered briefly, broke away, went into the house. Lal fell back into the shadow.
“Did you see that?” whispered Angela.
“M’yes. I rather think I did.”
“Oh, Bernard! What did she say?”
“I haven’t the least idea.”
“Let’s go in directly,” said Angela, in high excitement.
On the balcony they passed Lal; but Lal’s face was never the index of his feelings, and it baffled curiosity. From the threshold Angela looked round for Dolly, to discover that, whatever had happened a minute ago, Dolly was not thinking of it now. She stood, one ofa group surrounding Norman Merton, who had the evening paper and was reading aloud from it. Pretty little Mrs. Merton was very grave, her eyes soft with pity and distress; Maud Prideaux looked horrified. Dolly’s face Angela could not decipher; it was held by some thought more powerful than pity or horror.
“‘... Had the explosion taken place five minutes earlier the carnage must have been frightful, and many families deprived of their breadwinners. As it is, we regret to announce the death of Mr. Lucian de Saumarez, the well-known author, who was a partner in the business, and of the manager, Mr. Smith Charlesworth. Both were standing too close to the scene of destruction to be able to escape. It is feared that the bodies, which are buried under a huge accumulation of débris, will never be recovered. Much sympathy is felt for Mr. Farquhar, who has been deprived at one blow of his friend and his fortune—’”
“Is Mr. Farquhar hurt?”
Dolly spoke out, careless who might hear.
“No, Miss Fane, Farquhar’s perfectly safe.”
“Not hurt! How did it happen?”
“No one knows at present, but they seem to think there was foul play.”
White as death, she turned away, listening to no more. Lal, who had just come in, wasstanding by the window; Dolly’s eyes sought his. “Will you go out to Petit-Fays for me?” Angela heard her say. And: “I will go wherever you wish,” Lal answered without hesitation.