Melian stared, then raised herself on one elbow.
“What on earth are you talking about, Violet?” she said. “I tell you he’s in India.”
“Well, people come back from India sometimes, don’t they?”
“Yes. But I’ve no interest in this one, nor he in me. He has never shown any at any rate. I don’t want him to either. He wasn’t at all nice to my father. He disapproved of his sister marrying him, and, in fact, he disapproved of him entirely. No. I couldn’t bring myself to be civil even if I were to see him.”
“Have you ever seen him?”
“No.”
The word jerked out fiercely. Violet Clinock could see that her friend was getting excited, and that was bad.
“Then don’t be in too great a hurry to pass judgment. Life is—I’m not going to say, ‘too short,’ as the silly old chestnut runs, when if anything it’s long enough—but too busy, too hard, to keep grinding away at ancient grievances, even if they are not entirely or partly imaginary. It’s just possible that this relation of yours may have been a bit misunderstood. Anyway give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Where did you say he is?” said Melian listlessly.
“Clancehurst—or near it, rather,” glancing again at the newspaper. “Heath Hover, they call his place.”