"Always?" says Guy, lightly, though in reality his face has grown suddenly pale, and his fingers clinch involuntarily.
"Well," in her unchangeable placid staccato voice, "generally. He seems very épris with her, and she appears to receive his admiration favorably. Have you not noticed it?"
"I cannot say I have."
"No?"—incredulously—"how extraordinary! But men are proverbially dull in the observation of such matters as love-affairs. Some, indeed," with slow meaning, "are positively blind."
She lays her work upon the table before her and examines it critically. She does not so much as glance at her victim, though secretly enjoying the knowledge that he is writhing beneath the lash.
"Chesney would be a good match for her," says Guy, with the calmness of despair. But his calmness does not deceive his companion.
"Very good. The Park, I am told, is even larger than Chetwoode. You, as her guardian, should, I think, put carefully before her all the advantages to be derived from such a marriage."
Here she smooths out her parrot, and, turning her head slightly to one side, wonders whether a little more crimson in the wings would not make them look more attractive. No, perhaps not: they are gaudy enough already,—though one often sees—a parrot—with——
"I don't believe mere money would have weight with Lilian," Guy breaks in upon her all-important reverie, with a visible effort.
"No? Perhaps not. But then the Park is her old home, and she, who professes such childish adoration for it, might possibly like to regain it. You really should speak to her, Guy. She should not be allowed to throw away such a brilliant chance, when a few well-chosen words might bias her in the right direction."