“I could imagine nothing more unfortunate than that she should feel any interest in Duke da Sestos,” I said with feeling.
She looked at me anxiously.
“Do you know anything derogatory to him, Mr. Hume?”
“No,” I answered bluntly, “I know nothing of him.”
She sighed out her relief.
A large person, with an English accent carefully modulated, Mrs. Gordon was not easily moved to anxiety. Her nerves were padded in leather. One could not prick them with anything less formidable than a pitchfork. But my remarks had ruffled her complacency for the moment, that colossal complacency as immense as her wardrobe, and silly and moveless as her pride. But even she would hesitate to encourage the duke’s suit if I could show her it was quite impossible. Could I do that? At least, I intended to try.
She pondered a moment. “So you know nothing. But it would not be difficult for you to make inquiries. Understanding Italian life, as you do, living in Venice so long––”
“Make inquiries, Mrs. Gordon?” I interrupted coldly. I should have thought my cool stare would have disconcerted her somewhat.
“And,” she continued frostily (evidently the stare had been wholly in vain, then), “it seems to me that my appeal to you should be received in the light of a duty. You are one of our oldest friends. You ought to have Jacqueline’s interests at heart.”
“God knows I have her interests at heart,” I cried bitterly. “But I fail to see––”