“My mother-in-law really believes it matters whether she calls on people or not,” said Bertha, in her low, even voice. “Isn’t it touching?”
Madeline seized her hand.
“Bertha, need I be frightened of Moona Chivvey? She’s a dangerous sort of girl; she takes interest in all the things Rupert does: pictures, and poetry and art needlework.”
“Does Rupert really do art needlework? What a universal genius he is!”
“Don’t be absurd! I mean the things he understands. And she runs after him, rather. Need I be afraid?”
“No, you need not,” reassured Bertha. “I don’t think she sounds at all violent. There’s a ring.”
“Then I’ll go.”
Almost immediately afterwards the servant announced “Mr. Nigel Hillier.”
Nigel Hillier came in cheerily and gaily, brimming over with vitality and in the highest spirits. At present he was like sunshine and fresh air. There was a lurking danger that as he grew older he might become breezy. But as yet there was no sign of a draught. He was just delightfully exhilarating. He was not what women call handsome or divine, but he was rather what men call a smart-looking chap: fair, with bright blue eyes, and the most mischievous smile in London. He was unusually rapid in thought, speech and movement, without being restless, and his presence was an excellent cure for slackness, languor, strenuousness or a morbid sense of duty.