For although he was enjoying a well-earned leave, the first for two years, and had every right to idle, the ordinary afternoon call of country life, rarely, as she knew, came into the scheme of his day.

The weather was beautiful and she had made sure that he would be golfing on a well-known links some three miles off.
Presently the small talk flagged, and Buntingford began to fidget.

Slowly Lady Georgina rose from her seat, and again extinguished the flame under the silver kettle.

Would she go, or would she not go?
Cynthia dropped some stitches in the tension of the moment.

Then Buntingford got up to open the door for Georgina, who, without deigning to make any conventional excuse for her departure, nevertheless departed.
Buntingford returned to his seat, picked up Cynthia's ball of wool, and sat holding it, his eyes on the down-dropped head of his cousin, and on the beautiful hands holding the knitting-needles.