Perior was still sitting on the sofa, abstractedly staring at the floor, as she entered.
"Only Camelia." She felt herself, to her dismay and disgust, growing red.
"I have come to make Mary's excuses. She can't go--is so sorry." With an effort she regained her composure. After all, he would never dream that to be with him she had sent off Mary, and the sudden seeing of the matter in that absolving light relieved her; it was rather to her credit, so seen, and her fondness for Perior really touching.
"Can't go?" he repeated staring. "Why she sent me word that she would be ready in twenty minutes."
"She had forgotten an engagement with Mrs. Grier; I was to have gone--" (it was as well to be as near the truth as possible), "but couldn't because of my headache--I have a horrible headache. I would have put her off, but the engagement was one of a sort Mary especially likes, a round of village visits to the almshouses, and poor children, and afterwards tea and curates galore--" Camelia realized that with a confused uninventiveness she was repeating her own words to Mary. "Mary likes tea and likes curates," she went on, pushed even further by that sense of confusion--she had never told her old friend so many lies, "and the curates like Mary, and no doubt one day she will see her way to making a choice among them." Her voice was smooth, and certainly left no cranny for suspicion, yet Perior still stared.
"What a vacuous look!" laughed Camelia, wishing that she had not been forced to cross quite so many Rubicons.
"I feel sure that Mary has been sacrificing herself--as usual," he said slowly.
"Sacrificing herself? Conceited man! Do you weigh yourself against half-a-dozen curates--reinforced by tea and sandwiches?"
"Mary likes our rides immensely--and I never saw any signs of a fondness for curates."
"No, but a fondness for Mrs. Grier, almshouses, tea, curates, and the Lady Bountiful atmosphere combined."
Perior looked absently out of the window; presently he said, "I don't think she is looking over well--you know her father died of consumption."
"Don't; he was my uncle!" Camelia exclaimed. "Still, my chest is as sound as a drum." She gave it a reassuring thump.
"That must be very comforting to you, personally, but is Mary's?"