—But now, the paroxysm of that savage and mindless laughter having left him, George Pentland had suddenly espied the mother and her children, waved to them in genial greeting, and excusing himself from his companions—a group of young men and women who wore the sporting look and costume of “the country club crowd”—he was walking towards his kinsmen at an indolent swinging stride, pausing to acknowledge heartily the greetings of people on every side, with whom he was obviously a great favourite.
As he approached, he bared his strong white teeth again in greeting, and in a drawling, rich-fibred voice, which had unmistakably the Pentland quality of sensual fullness, humour, and assurance, and a subtle but gloating note of pleased self-satisfaction, he said:
“Hello, Aunt Eliza, how are you? Hello, Helen—how are you, Hugh?” he said in his high, somewhat accusing, but very strong and masculine voice, putting his big hand in an easy affectionate way on Barton’s arm. “Where the hell you been keepin’yourself, anyway?” he said accusingly. “Why don’t some of you folks come over to see us sometime? Elk was askin’about you all the other day—wanted to know why Helen didn’t come round more often.”
“Well, George, I tell you how it is,” the young woman said with an air of great sincerity and earnestness. “Hugh and I have intended to come over a hundred times, but life has been just one damned thing after another all summer long. If I could only have a moment’s peace—if I could only get away by myself for a moment—if they would only leave me alone for an hour at a time, I think I could get myself together again—do you know what I mean, George?” she said hoarsely and eagerly, trying to enlist him in her sympathetic confidence—“If they’d only do something for themselves once in a while—but they all come to me when anything goes wrong—they never let me have a moment’s peace—until at times I think I’m going crazy—I get queer—funny, you know,” she said vaguely and incoherently. “I don’t know whether something happened Tuesday or last week or if I just imagined it.” And for a moment her big gaunt face had the dull strained look of hysteria.
“The strain on her has been very great this summer,” said Barton in a deep and grave tone. “It’s—it’s,” he paused carefully, deeply, searching for a word, and looked down as he flicked an ash from his long cigar, “it’s—been too much for her. Everything’s on her shoulders,” he concluded in his deep grave voice.
“My God, George, what is it?” she said quietly and simply, in the tone of
