There was a dignity and a certain consciousness in Lois’ bearing which Mrs. Desfrayne had never noticed with her before. She reproached herself now for having been so uniformly cold and frigid with the girl, for she adored wealth, and she judged by herself that it was impossible the new-made heiress could overlook or forgive all the petty slights she had suffered from the insolent widow.
Mrs. Desfrayne was going to address Lady Quaintree, when Miss Turquand crossed quickly, not perceiving her. She laid a detaining hand on the young girl’s arm.
“I am delighted to hear of your good fortune, my dear,” she said, with a little perceptible embarrassment.
Lois raised her clear eyes, and looked for a moment into the suavely smiling face before her with an expression difficult to define. Then she bowed: it was a perfectly gracious but decidedly icy inclination. She did not answer in words; but, with an ambiguous smile, passed on.
Never for an instant could Mrs. Desfrayne have imagined in her wildest fancies that the tables could have been so completely turned upon her.
It was a fine moral lesson, only, unfortunately, it fell short of its mark; and the coldness of Miss Turquand, partly unintentional and partly arising from habit, made the haughty woman of the world detest yet more the girl whom she had hitherto simply ignored and noticed as little as if she had been a piece of furniture of very ordinary importance.
Mrs. Desfrayne turned pale with rage. She almost wished the old man who had made the eccentric will had been sunk to the bottom of the sea ere he had committed his money and his ridiculous desires to paper. That girl the wife of her son! Truly, she had need be radiant with the glitter of gold before she could possess any attractions in the eyes of this proud and ambitious, yet narrow-minded, woman.
Many mothers are quite willing to think with some complacence of an ideal wife for their sons—a wife to be selected by themselves, perhaps: a creature of the imagination. But when it comes to be a matter of sober reality—when there is a real flesh-and-blood being, not a stone ideal, set before them—why, it is a very different affair.
Mrs. Desfrayne made her way to Lady Quaintree, and promised herself that she would arrange for a long chat on this absorbing subject, if she could persuade her good hostess to ask for her company in a drive round the park.
During the singing of some Italian duets by the artists who had been gathered together for the night, she contrived to learn a good deal.