“Do you really care?” asked Lady Sunningdale. “I really don’t see why you should. He is unreasonable. I shouldn’t worry.”
Stella turned to Martin with a certain air of expectancy.
“Yes, I do care,” he said; “I care horribly. I care every day. I hate being on bad terms with any one. I hate anger and resentment,” he added, with a little quiet air of dignity, for he had not wholly liked Lady Sunningdale’s remarks.
“That was one of Nature’s most extraordinary conjuring tricks,” she said. “People talk of heredity; but put all the fathers of England in a row, and ask any one to pick out Martin’s. The better they know either of you, by so much the more will they pick out Mr. Challoner last of all!”
Martin got up.
“Ah, don’t let’s talk about it,” he said; “it is not agreeable. I wish I could laugh about it like you, but I can’t.”
Then, with a quick intuition, he turned to Stella.
“One can’t do any good by talking about it, can one?” he asked.
Something still jarred on the girl, due partly to their talk before Lady Sunningdale came in.
“You have admirable common sense,” she said.