When it was over, and Mrs. Cary had once more
ensconced herself on the lounge, Beatrice shook her shoulders as though
thrusting something intensely disagreeable away from her.
"In any case, it may be too late," she said, putting the finishing touches
to her toilet. "If Mr. Travers meant to tell, he has probably done so
already. I shall be able to judge by Mrs. Carmichael's hand-shake
to-night."
"We must hope for the best," returned Mrs. Cary, with pious resignation.
The two women relapsed into silence. Beatrice hovered lightly about the
room, collecting her fan, handkerchief and gloves, every now and again
casting the same curious, unloving glance at herself in the long mirror.
Presently she went to the window and pulled aside the muslin curtain.
"Some one is driving up the avenue," she said. "It's a dog-cart. I wonder
who it is."
"A dog-cart!" Mrs. Cary repeated thoughtfully. "Now, who has a dog-cart in
Marut? Not many people, I fancy." A dull flush mounted her coarse cheeks.
"Why," she exclaimed, "I believe Mr. Travers has!"
Beatrice dropped the curtain back into its place.
"That would be a coincidence, wouldn't it?" she remarked, with a faint
irony from which her tone had never been wholly free.
A minute later the ayah entered the room.
"Travers Sahib is here," she announced. "He asks if missy drive with him
to the Colonel Sahib in his cart. Travers Sahib waiting."
Beatrice and her mother exchanged glances.
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