"But he is despicable," said Lady Brayle, breathing hard. "I hadn't observed it'.'
"Constantly he consorts with low company. Never once does it enter his head—" this was the real grievance—"that their station is in any way inferior to his. His childish vanity, which makes him seriously imagine he is a model of deportment like Lord Chesterfield, is infuriating. On his vile tempers and obscene language I need not dwell. Even now, I believe, he is downstairs explaining to poor Cicely how he was once a Cavalier poet"
"Lady Brayle," Martin interrupted, "where's Jenny?"
Lady Brayle flowed into this without even seeming to notice the change of subject
"Jennifer," she corrected him, "has gone home. On my specific order. Her behaviour here today was unladylike and even disgusting. No less than twenty times, by my own counting, Dr. Laurier had to assure her you were not at death's door. The speech she addressed to you — well, I make no comment."
This bedroom, uncompromisingly masculine, was a large square room with striped wall-paper and heavy oak furniture, dimly lighted by the bedside lamp. Lady Brayle stopped short in her pacing and loomed over the bed.
"Captain Drake," she began formally.
There was something strange in her tone. Martin, in the act of lighting a cigarette, blew out the lighter-flame.
"Yes?"
Lady Brayle seemed to be pushing, pushing hard against some door inside herself, to struggle out It was a difficult business.