“Nina?” He repeated the name half-absently; perhaps the larger share of his attention was occupied by the other part of my remarks. “Yes, Nina, of course!” But, as he dwelt on the thought of Lady Dundrannan (suddenly, as it seemed, recalled to his mind), his look of depression disappeared. He smiled in amusement—with an element of wonder in it; and he spoke as if he were surprising me with a wonderful discovery.
“I say, Julius, Lucinda positively laughs at Nina, you know!”
CHAPTER XVI
PURPLE—AND FINE LINEN
THAT Lucinda had once got the better of Nina had been the thing about her which most stirred Godfrey’s curiosity; that Lucinda now laughed at Nina evidently aroused in him an almost incredulous wonder. Perhaps it was calculated to surprise any one; to a Frost it must have seemed portentous; for Frosts, father, daughter, and nephew, judged by what you did and, consequently, had, not by what you were. Judged by their standards, Lucinda’s laughter was ridiculous, but in Godfrey’s fascinated eyes also sublime: such a sublime audacity as only a supremely attractive woman dare and can carry. The needlewoman, the midinette, the showcase girl, laughing at Lady Dundrannan! But there it was. I think that it shook to its foundations something that was very deeply set in Godfrey Frost.
“Well, I suppose Lucinda knew that you were seeing her on the sly,” I suggested.
He flushed a little. “I don’t particularly like that way of putting it. I’m not responsible to Nina for my actions.”