The challenge here being so direct, Olivia felt it her duty to take it up. The ladies were engaged in sorting the linen in preparation for the sale.
"Forget what?"
"Forget Drusilla, I suppose. Hasn't it struck you—how much he was in love with her?"
Olivia held a table-cloth carefully to the light. "Is this Irish linen or German? I know mamma did get some at Dresden—"
Mrs. Temple pointed out the characteristic of the Belfast weave and pressed her question. "Haven't you noticed it—about Peter?"
Olivia tried to keep her voice steady as she said: "I've no doubt I should have seen it if I hadn't been so preoccupied."
"Some people think—Rodney, for instance—that he'd lost his head about you, dear; but we mothers have an insight—"
"Of course! There seems to be one missing from the dozen of this pattern."
"Oh, it'll turn up. It's probably in the pile over there. I thought I'd speak about it, dear," she went on, "because it must be a relief to you not to have that complication. Things are so complicated already, don't you think? But if you haven't Peter on your mind, why, that's one thing the less to worry about. If you thought he was in love with you, dear—in your situation—going to be married to some one else—But you needn't be afraid of that at all. I never saw a young man more in love with any one than he is with Drusilla—and I think she must have refused him. If she hadn't he would never have shot off in that way, like a bolt from the blue—But what's the matter, dear? You look white. You're not ill?"
"It's the smell of lavender," Olivia gasped, weakly. "I never could endure it. I'll just run into the air a minute—"