“Why do you talk like that, Violet Riversley?” she asked. “You know you do not think like that yourself.”
North, standing by the window, watched, with the fingers of a horrible anxiety gripping him. His daughter’s face in the leaping firelight looked like a twisted distorted mask. Lady Condor, open-mouthed, comically perplexed, stared from one to the other, for once speechless.
“It is the truth.” Violet Riversley uttered the words slowly, it seemed with difficulty.
“You do not think so,” answered Ruth, still as one who would impress a fact on a child. Then she rose from her chair. “Come!” she said, with a strange note of command in her voice, “I know you will all like to walk round the place before tea.”
Violet passed her hand across her eyes, much as a person will do when waking from the proverbial forty winks. She stood up, and shivered a little.
Ruth was talking, after a fashion unusual to her, almost forcing the conversation into certain channels. “Yes, of course, you are very right, Lady Condor,” she said. “No man can be valued truly until you see what he can do just with his brain and his character and his own two hands. Now I can give Violet a really fine character for work. As a matter of fact I am filled with jealousy. She can milk quicker than I can. I think because she learnt when she was quite young. Mr. Carey taught her.”
“Poor dear Dick! He did teach the children such queer things,” said Lady Condor, allowing herself to be assisted out of her comfortable chair by the fire without protest. “But who was it learnt to milk? Some one quite celebrated. Was it Marie Antoinette? Or was it Queen Elizabeth? It must be just milking time; let us go, dear Violet, and see you milk. It will interest us so much,” she added, with that amazing tact which no one except those who knew her best ever realized.
Violet followed them into the garden without speaking. Her eyes had a curious vacant look; she moved like a person walking in her sleep.
Lady Condor took Ruth’s arm and dropped behind the others on the way to the farmyard. “My dear,” she said, “I don’t know what’s the matter, but I see you wish to create a diversion. Poor dear Violet, I have never heard her talk such nonsense before. Rather unpleasant nonsense too, wasn’t it? Can it be she has fallen in love with one of those dreadful Socialist creatures? I believe they can sometimes be quite attractive, and the young women of the present day are so outré, you never know who or what they will take up with. Besides, I believe they wash nowadays. The Socialists I mean, of course. In my day they thought it showed independence to appear dirty and without any manners. So funny, was it not? But I met one the other day who was charming. Quite good looking and well dressed, even his boots. Or, let me see, was he a Theosophist? There are so many ‘ists’ now, it is difficult not to get them mixed up. But where was I? Oh yes—dear Violet! Where can she have got those queer ideas from? I do hope she is not attracted by some ‘ist.’ I so often notice that when a woman gets queer opinions there is either a man, or the want of a man, at the bottom of it. And it cannot be the latter with dear Violet. Ah, now here we are. Don’t the dear things look pretty? And you have such a lovely milking shed for them. Violet, you really must show me how you milk. I should like to begin myself. But don’t you have to lean your head against the cow?—and it would ruin my dahlias.”
“Come and see the real dahlias instead,” said Violet, laughing. “Yours are the most wonderful imitation I have ever seen. I don’t believe you could tell them from the real ones. Where did you get them? Madame Elsa?”