He watched her carefully while she conversed, trying to reconstruct, out of that woman’s face, the childish features he dimly remembered. They were effaced. He could see what Keith had meant when he described her as “tailor-made.” There was something clear-cut about her, something not exactly harsh, but savouring of decision. She was plainly a personality—not an ordinary type. The lines of her face told their story. They had been hammered into a kind of hard efficiency. But over that exterior of tranquil self-possession was super-imposed something else—certain marks of recent trouble. Her eyes looked almost as if she had been weeping. She made a tremendous show of cheeriness, however, calling him Tommy as in olden days.
Just a little headache. This sirocco. It was bad enough when it blew in the ordinary fashion. But quite intolerable when it hung breathlessly about the air like this. Mr. Eames—he once called it PLUMBEUS Auster. That meant leaden, didn’t it? Everybody had headaches, more or less.
Was she speaking the truth? The bishop decided that she had an headache and that this south wind was certainly unendurable. None the less, he suspected that she was employing the common subterfuge—telling the truth, but not the whole truth; perhaps not even the main part of it. She was holding back something.
“You haven’t attended to these roses lately,” he said, observing that the flowers had not been changed and that their fallen petals strewed the tables. “They looked so fresh when I was here alone the other day.”
“What a dreadful person you are, Tommy, for noticing things. First you discover my headache, and now those flowers! I see I shall have to be careful with you. Perhaps you would like to look at my precipice and tell me if there is anything wrong with that too? You have heard of the old French lady, I daresay. She ended, you know, in not approving of it at all. We can have tea when we come back. And after that perhaps you will let me know what is wrong with baby?”
“I can tell you that without looking at him. He is teething.”
“Clever boy! As a matter of fact, he isn’t. But I had to make some excuse to the dear Duchess.”
They climbed up the short slope and found themselves looking towards the sea over the face of a dizzy cliff. A falcon, on their approach, started with rustle of wings from its ledge and then swayed crazily over the abyss. Watching this bird, the bishop felt a sudden voice in his stomach. A sensation of blackness came before his eyes—sky and sea were merged together—his feet were treading on air. He promptly sat down.
“Not an inch nearer!” he declared. “Not for a thousand pounds. If you go along that edge again, I shall have to look the other way. It makes me feel empty inside.”
“I’m not in the least giddy,” she laughed. “There was an English boy who threw himself over this cliff for a bet—you have heard the story? They never found his body. It’s a good place for throwing oneself down, isn’t it?”