There were
only forty people at luncheon, instead of the sixty that there had been.
So old Mrs. Paley computed, gazing about her with her faded eyes, as
she took her seat at her own table in the window. Her party generally
consisted of Mr. Perrott as well as Arthur and Susan, and to-day Evelyn
was lunching with them also.
She was unusually subdued. Having noticed that her eyes were red, and
guessing the reason, the others took pains to keep up an elaborate
conversation between themselves. She suffered it to go on for a
few minutes, leaning both elbows on the table, and leaving her soup
untouched, when she exclaimed suddenly, "I don't know how you feel, but
I can simply think of nothing else!"
The gentlemen murmured sympathetically, and looked grave.
Susan replied, "Yes--isn't it perfectly awful? When you think what
a nice girl she was--only just engaged, and this need never have
happened--it seems too tragic." She looked at Arthur as though he might
be able to help her with something more suitable.
"Hard lines," said Arthur briefly. "But it was a foolish thing to do--to
go up that river." He shook his head. "They should have known better.
You can't expect Englishwomen to stand roughing it as the natives do
who've been acclimatised. I'd half a mind to warn them at tea that
day when it was being discussed. But it's no good saying these sort of
things--it only puts people's backs up--it never makes any difference.
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