“A barrister; a clever, idle barrister.”
“Oh, is he a barrister? Do you know, I rather like them. I wonder if he would take us over one of the inns, and to see the Law Courts and Temple? Wouldn’t you like to see it, some day?”
“No. I don’t think I should care much about it,” rejoined Madeline with studied indifference.
Could—oh, could Mrs. Leach have guessed anything? At any rate, she was getting hot, as they say in magic music; and, to put an end to such hazardous conversation, she went over to the piano and began to play a little thing of Grieg’s. Now that she suspected Mrs. Leach—handsome, well-mannered, charming, low-voiced Mrs. Leach—of wishing to play the spy, her terrified memory recalled many little items which she pieced together: how Mrs. Leach had a careless way of looking over all the letters, of hearing two conversations at the same time, of asking strange and seemingly stupid questions—especially about the last years of her residence at Harperton!
In the early days of Mr. West’s convalescence, when his appearance downstairs and his temper had been somewhat fitful, Madeline found herself one afternoon alone in the library with Lord Toby. He was talking of the theatres, and urging her to accompany him and Lady Rachel to the Haymarket.
“This beastly snow has stopped the hunting, and there is nothing to do but skate and go to the play. Why can’t you come to-night? Your father is pretty nearly all right; and Mrs. Leach will look after him. It’s a capital piece. Oh, I forgot!” and he paused; he had been walking to and fro, with his hands in his pockets.
“Forgot what?” looking up from her embroidery.
“That you’d seen it before.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, gazing at him with dispassionate calm.
“I mean that I saw you there, now I remember; but I didn’t see your chaperon! You needn’t look so stunned; you were with a good-looking chap, in a stage box. You sat with your back to the audience, too.”