“Nita called her ‘that woman’ to me just now,” said Mr. Fothersley solemnly.
Lady Condor raised her hand. “That settles it, of course! And now, dear Arthur, what is to be done? We really cannot have one of those dreadful performances that have unfortunately occurred in the past!”
“I really don’t know,” said Mr. Fothersley. He was divided between excitement and distress. “It is quite useless to talk to either of them. Nita generally consults me, but she listens neither to reason nor advice. And Roger only laughs or loses his temper.”
“Yes,” agreed Lady Condor. “I think it depends on the state of his liver. And as for poor Nita listening to reason on that subject—well—as you say!”
“If only she would not tell everybody it would not be so terrible.”
“Ah, that is just the little touch of bourgeois,” said Lady Condor. “It was wine, wasn’t it? Or was it something dried? And poor dear Roger is really so safe—yes—he would be terribly bored with a real affair de cœur. He would forget any woman for weeks if he were arranging a combination of elements to see if they would blow each other up. And if the poor woman made a scene, or uttered a word of reproach even, he would be off for good and all—pouf—just like that. And what good is that to any woman? I have told Nita so, but it is no good—no! Now if she had been married to Condor! Poor darling, he is perfectly helpless in the hands of anything in petticoats! It is not his fault. It is temperament, you know. All the Hawkhursts have very inflammable dispositions. And when he was younger, women were so silly about him! I used to pretend not to know, and I was always charming to them all. It worked admirably.”
“I always admired your dignity, dear Marion,” said Mr. Fothersley.
“We have always shielded our men,” said Lady Condor, and she looked a very great lady indeed.
“Our day is passing,” said Mr. Fothersley sadly. “I deplore it very much. Very much indeed.”
“Fortunately”—Lady Condor pursued her reminiscences—“Condor has a sense of humour, which always prevented him making himself really ridiculous: that would have worried me. A man running round a woman looking like an amorous sheep! Where are my glasses, Arthur? And who is that girl over there, all legs and neck? Of course the present style of dress has its advantages—one has nothing on to lose. But where was I? Something about sheep? Oh yes, dear Condor. I have always been so thankful that when he lost his figure—he had a very fine figure as a young man you remember—he gave up all that sort of thing. You must, of course, if you have any sense of the ridiculous. But about Roger and Miss Seer. She is a woman with dignity. Now where can she have got it from? She seems to have been brought up between an orphan clergy school and some shop—was it old furniture?—something old I know. Not clothes—no—but something old. And some one said she had been a cook. But one can be anything these days.”