“You wouldn’t have liked me to have any secret from you, Lawrence.”
“No, my love, that is true; at the same time, you must remember that you might have had half a dozen mad relatives, and I should not have known. The fact is”—and his voice changed—“I was terribly sensitive about it, Gwen. I was so afraid you would make a trouble of it, and fancy insanity was hereditary in the Dacre family. My uncle’s eccentricity would have confirmed the impression, and the very idea of a possible fate of this kind for your unborn child would almost have worried you into your grave.”
“I am afraid it would,” she admitted.
“But let us talk of something more cheerful now, Gwen. Who do you think is coming to see you to-morrow?”
“Not Mrs. O’Hara?” said Lady Gwendolyn, looking alarmed.
“A very bad guess. Try again.”
“Pauline?”
“Heaven forbid! Will you give it up?”
“Is it Beatrice Ponsonby?”
“No again.”