She had sunk back in her chair and closed the book though she kept it in her lap. Jeffrey sat astride a chair and folded his arms on the top. Some of the blinds had been closed to keep out the heat, and the dusk hid the deep, crisp lines of his face. Under his moist tossed hair it was a young face, as Miss Amabel had told him, and his attitude became a boy.
"Lydia," said he, "what do you two talk about?"
"Madame Beattie and I?"
"Yes. In those long drives, for instance, what do you say?"
Lydia looked at him, her eyes narrowed slightly, and Jeffrey knew she did not want to tell. When Esther didn't want to tell, a certain soft glaze came over her eyes. Jeffrey had seen the glaze for a number of years before he knew what it meant. And when he found out, though it had been a good deal of a shock, he hardly thought the worse of Esther. He generalised quite freely and concluded that you couldn't expect the same standards of women as from men; and after that he was a little nervous and rather careful about the questions he asked. But Lydia's eyes had no glaze. They were desperate rather, the eyes of a little wild thing that is going to be frightened and possibly caught. Jeffrey felt quite excited, he was so curious to know what form the lie would take.
"Politics," said Lydia.
Jeffrey broke out into a laugh.
"Oh, come off!" said he. "Politics. Not much you don't."
Lydia laughed, too, in a sudden relief and pleasure. She didn't like her lie, it seemed.
"No," said she, "we don't. But I tell Anne if people ask questions it's at their own risk. They must take what they get."