"Go on the stage! Go on what stage? Oh, you'd like to see your husband prancing about like a painted mountebank with a chorus of leading ladies, would you?"
"Oh no, indeed I shouldn't! But are leading ladies all dreadful? And I thought you were in love with a singer yourself," said Sylvia.
Savile threw away his cigarette, with what he hoped was a hollow laugh.
"My dear child, what I choose to do and what I allow my sister to do are two very different things."
"I dare say they are, darling," said Sylvia mildly. "And, please don't imagine for one moment that I suppose you ever do anything at all—I mean, that you oughtn't."
"No, I shouldn't worry about me," said Savile. "We're talking about your troubles.... As if Woodville were such an ass! Catch him going in for such rot!" He laughed. "Sylvia, do you suppose that he's stayed here in this hole," said Savile in a muffled undertone, looking round the exquisite room, and then repeating loudly and defiantly, "I say, in this Hole, except for you? Do you think he can't do anything better? Mind you, the Governor's fond of Woodville, it's only the cash and all that. If that idiot of an uncle of his hadn't married his housekeeper, it would have been all right."
"Oh, Savile, fancy, I saw her once! She wore——"
"Describe her dress some other day, dear, for Heaven's sake. What I say is that Woodville is the sort of man who could make his mark."
"Do you think he could make a name by painting?" she asked eagerly.
Savile looked rather sick, and said with patient resignation, "By painting what? The front of the house? Look here, some one's got to talk sense. Leave this to me." He then waited a minute, and said, "I'll get him something to do!"