She leaned back in her chair, with heightened color and brightening eyes: her breath came a little more quickly than usual, as if her pulses were quickened. There is nothing so catching as emotion. Oliver's sluggish pulses began to stir at the sight of her. That soft and tender face seemed more beautiful to him than the sparkle and vivacity of Ethel Kenyon's. If it had not been for Ethel's twenty thousand pounds, he did not know but what he would have preferred Lesley. Rosy had said that Lesley would suit him best.
"I am not laughing; I swear I am not," he said earnestly. "I know what you mean—you are thinking of the London poor. Your tender heart has been stirred by the sight of them in the streets—they are dreadful to look at, are they not? It is like you to feel their woes so acutely."
"I want to know," said Lesley, rather plaintively, "whether I cannot do anything for them?"
"You—do anything—for the poor?" repeated Oliver. Then he scanned her narrowly—scanned her shining hair, delicate features, Paris-made gown, and dainty shoe—and laughed a little. "You can let them look at you—that ought to be enough," he said.
Lesley frowned. "Nonsense, Mr. Trent. What does my father do for his Club?"
"Smokes with the men, sometimes, I believe. You couldn't do that, you know——"
"Although——" and then Lesley stopped short and laughed.
"Although Aunt Sophy does. It's no secret, my dear Miss Brooke. Half the women in London smoke now-a-days, I believe. Even my sister indulges now and then."
Lesley gave her head a little toss. "What else does my father do?" she asked.
"Sings to them. Sunday afternoon, that is, you know. The wives are allowed to come to the Club-room then, and he has a sort of little concert for them—good music, sacred music, even, I believe. He gets professionals to come now and then; they will do anything to oblige your father, you know—and when they don't come, he sings himself. He really has a very good bass voice."