CHAPTER XVIIIW
hat
will be, will be,” says the Italian fatalist.
The intelligent Cudby had seen it coming, warned his chief, and, like many another prophet, got snubbed for his pains. Elinor Currey had also prophesied to her own undoing. Lady Luxmoore, though she kept urbanely silent, was aware of a romance and of her own elderly, vicarious enjoyment. In fact, any reasoning being, except Jasper, could have set up as an oracle; for, given the circumstances, it was bound to be.
Why it should have happened on that particular day, neither knew. Perhaps it was because Bunny, somewhat excited by the immediate success of his war poem and by the emotional effort expended on a second, both looked and felt more tired than usual. Perhaps it was because the August day enveloped them in languorous
