“Yes.” said Sophia, “she’s been here a great deal too long.”
“What do YOU suggest?” Cyril asked, with impatience in his voice against this new anxiety that was being thrust upon him.
“Well,” said Sophia, “what should you say to her coming to London and living with you?”
Cyril started back. Sophia could see that he was genuinely shocked. “I don’t think that would do at all,” he said.
“Why?”
“Oh! I don’t think it would. London wouldn’t suit her. She’s not that sort of woman. I really thought she was quite all right down here. She wouldn’t like London.” He shook his head, looking up at the gas; his eyes had a dangerous glare.
“But supposing she said she did?”
“Look here,” Cyril began in a new and brighter tone. “Why don’t you and she keep house together somewhere? That would be the very—”
He turned his head sharply. There was a noise on the staircase, and the staircase door opened with its eternal creak.
“Yes,” said Sophia. “The Champs Elysees begins at the Place de la Concorde, and ends——. Is that you, Constance?”