"He said he had ability; that if he was on his own in the country some place——"
"'On his own'!" Madam's contempt was great. "He hasn't got any own. He's just like the girls—no force or decision about any of them. Their father wasn't like that; I am sure I'm not. What's the matter with them, anyhow?"
Quin looked her straight in the eyes. "Do you want to know, honest?"
Disconcerting as it was to have an oratorical question taken literally, Madam's curiosity prompted her to nod her head.
"The same thing's the matter with them," said Quin, with brutal frankness, "that's the matter with your leg. They've been broken and kept in the cast too long."
Then, before he could get the berating he surely deserved, he was off down the stairs, disturbing the silence of the house with his cheerful whistle.
At breakfast the next morning he scented trouble. Until now he had made little headway with the two sisters, having been too much occupied in storming the fortress of Madam's regard to concern himself with the outlying districts. But this morning he met with an even colder reception than usual. In vain he fired off his best jokes: Miss Enid remained pale and languid, and Miss Isobel presided over the coffee-pot as if it had been a funeral urn. A crisis was evidently pending, and he determined to meet it half way.
"Is Queen Vic mad at me?" he asked suddenly, leaning forward on his folded arms and smiling with engaging candor.
Miss Isobel started to pour the cream into the sugar-bowl, but caught herself in the act.
"If you mean my mother," she said with reproving dignity, "she has asked me to tell you—that is, we all think it best——"