Kingdom Lost by Patricia Wentworth Page B

any more. “Gosh, kid, if I was that sort!”
    â€œEdward said—”
    â€œLook here, if you’re going to tell me what Edward said, you’ll start me saying things I oughtn’t to.”
    Valentine tapped with her foot; her eyes still sparkled. She put her head a little on one side.
    â€œEdward said—”
    It is to Barclay’s credit that he remained silent.
    â€œAren’t you going to say anything?” inquired Miss Ryven.
    He resumed his self-control.
    â€œNot before the child,” he said, and was pleased to observe that she flushed.
    â€œOh, but I wanted to hear what you were going to say!”
    Barclay burst out laughing.

CHAPTER VII
    â€œWell, I don’t know how you can knit !” said Ida Cobb.
    Mrs. Ryven went on knitting. She sat in the sofa corner, upright, but not stiffly upright. She knitted in the continental fashion, her hands low and almost motionless. The stocking between them moved rhythmically as the needles clicked; but Helena Ryven’s hands hardly seemed to move at all. She had been very handsome twenty years ago, and she was very handsome now. Her thick dark hair was becomingly shingled and only lightly sprinkled with grey; her skin was as smooth as a girl’s. Yet she looked her age; there was something set about her whole aspect—a suggestion of achievement, completion, which made youth and its striving uncertainties seem very far away.
    Her sister, Mrs. Cobb, was of a different type—fairer, softer, with a lined plump face and greying hair precariously held in an old-fashioned coil by a great many hairpins. She had been standing by the window of her sister’s drawing-room looking out into the steadily falling rain. The window commanded a magnificent view of the Downs, but to-day the view was visible only as rolling cloud and driving mist. The house stood high amongst beech woods, now a mass of drenched, straining foliage. Where the trees had been cut away to frame the view, the mist was swirling in like the spray of some wild sea.
    Ida Cobb turned to the window and said, for the twentieth time, “What an afternoon! What frightful weather!”
    â€œYou won’t make it any better by talking about it,” said Helena Ryven.
    Mrs. Cobb made an impatient sound.
    â€œWell, how you can knit! ” she said again.
    â€œI promised the stockings to little Maggie Brown, and I see no good reason for disappointing her.”
    â€œGoodness, Helena! Reason! I should think you’d fifty thousand reasons for disappointing anyone. Honestly , I don’t feel I can bear it when you just sit there and knit.”
    Helena Ryven smiled with her lips. Her very handsome eyes remained grave.
    â€œWhat would you like me to do, Ida?” she inquired with a faintly sarcastic inflection.
    Mrs. Cobb threw up her hands.
    â€œ Do! Well, I should think it a great deal more natural if you had hysterics.”
    â€œThat would be so helpful—wouldn’t it?”
    Mrs. Cobb came forward with an exasperated rustle of a blue taffeta dress. She was the only woman of her age in England who still wore a silk petticoat. She sat down on the sofa with a flounce.
    â€œWell, if it was me , I couldn’t sit and knit. Helena, for goodness mercy’s sake, put that stocking down, or I shall scream!”
    Mrs. Ryven continued to knit. Barclay had wronged her good sense when he accused her of wearing skirts to the knee; the hem of her brown washing silk was at least three inches below it.
    â€œScream if you want to, my dear,” she said.
    Instead of screaming, Mrs. Cobb looked at her watch.
    â€œHalf-past five,” she said. “How soon do you think they’ll be here?”
    â€œAny time after a quarter to six.”
    â€œThen Timothy ought to be here. Hadn’t I better telephone and see if he’s started? Honestly, Helena, I’m not going to face it without Timothy. You may say what you like, but a man