During all this Lady Brayle might not have been in the room, might not have existed. She sat over by one open window, staring blankly ahead of her, an untasted glass of sherry on the window-sill. She did not seem arrogant or even friendly: only like one who had been lost and still gropes.
"Do you remember that incident Sophie?" H.M. called softly.
"Yes." The stiff lips writhed as the grey-white head slowly turned. "I remember." "What was said?"
‘I made some mention of a blade, a sword, which I wished I could have brought back from Willaby's as a present There— there was real horror in Cicely's eyes. She blurted out, 'But you must never…' Then Cicely stopped and turned it off with some reference to Dr. Laurier. What she meant I imagine, was, 'You must never bring a sharp blade into this house?'"
That's right," agreed H.M. "And then (hey) she took you upstairs and told you the whole truth?"
They spoke to each outer across the length of a room, Lady Brayle with her head turned sideways, trying to control the writhing of her mouth; but they spoke without incongruity.
"Poor Cicely," Lady Brayle went on, "could hardly speak for sobbing. About the skeleton in, the clock. About that half-mad, or altogether mad, boy who—" She stopped. I do not suppose, Henry, you now have much respect for my word of honour?"
That's where you're wrong, Sophie."
"Never, until that moment," the lips writhed vehemently, "had I the least suspicion, let alone knowledge, of the situation. To think I would allow Jennifer, after that, to be married to…" She floundered. "My late husband, who commanded the Grenadier Guards, once said that a person who allowed…"
"Yes. Sure.-But Aunt Cicely would have allowed the marriage, hey?"