"My dear Gerald, anyone would think _I_ wanted her to do it!" Lady
Kingsmead's voice was very fretful, for Carron had done nothing but talk
to her about Brigit for the last fortnight, and though she knew that his
old love for herself was dead and buried, yet she enjoyed having an
occasional flower of speech laid on its grave.
"I really believe you are in love with her," she went on after a pause,
as he did not answer.
"Bosh!"
"But it certainly looks like it. You do nothing but talk about her."
Carron roused himself with an effort from the treadmill line of thought
that had tortured him ever since Brigit's engagement. "My dear Tony, you
are absurd. You know perfectly well that I have never loved any woman
but you. You have led me a dog's life for years; you prevented my
getting on in my career, because it amused you to have me dangling
about----"
Lady K. Oh, Gerald, will you ever forget that horrible
winter when you went to India?
Carron (_aloud_). No, Tony! (_In petto_) She _can't_
love the boy. That much is quite impossible!
Lady K. The awful cables you used to send me? Heavens, how
I cried every night, Gerry! And how horrid Kingsmead was that year!
_So_ jealous.
Carron (_aloud_). You were always such an abominable
flirt! (_In petto_) If I only knew _why_ she hates me so! God! it's
worse than hatred; it's loathing.
Lady K. (_reproachfully_). That is unfair, dear. You
_know_ I never loved anyone but you!
Carron (_aloud_). But you flirted, Tony; yes, you did. You
nearly drove me mad with jealousy. (_In petto_) Hang it all! how
can I get away and go for a walk? This is unbearable.
And so on, and so on, all the _triste canzon_. Lady Kingsmead's boudoir
was a charming room done in white and pale corn-colour. There were many
books, but Tommy had one day betrayed the limitations of their field of
usefulness by asking his mother before several people, "Mother, where do
you keep the books you _read_?"
There were many flowers, beautiful Turkey carpets, shaded lamps,
overloaded little tables whose mission in life appeared to be the
driving parlour-maids, however reluctant, to the process of dusting,
and, in the darkest corner, where its faded gilding was supposed to
lighten the gloom, a beautiful old harp. The harp belonged to Mr. Isaacs
in Baker Street, but was supposed to have been played by the fair
fingers of Lady Kingsmead's grandmother.
The furniture and hangings, all new, belonged to Messrs. Bampton in
Piccadilly, as did the carpets. The pictures, belonging to the entail,
were paid for. Lady Kingsmead lay on a _chaise-longue_ and played with a
Persian kitten named Omar.
Carron sat opposite her in a low chair smoking cigarettes. It was just
four o'clock.
"I suppose she'll curse me out for being here," Carron began suddenly,
feeling that he deserved, after his hasty excursion into the churchyard
of his ancient love, a short indulgence in his present feelings; "she's
a good hater, that girl of yours."
"Yes, she has a very nasty temper. Now I, with all my
faults"--(pause)--"with all my faults, never could stay angry more than
five minutes. Besides, I was always so sensitive."
"Yes; oh, yes! What train does she come by, did you say?"
"The 4.27. Perhaps you'd like to go and meet her?"