Rose’s tone had involuntarily altered, and her smile, not involuntarily, had vanished.
“Good-bye, Rose. If you want any help about Cecil, don’t hesitate to apply to me.”
Had there been deliberate mockery in his manner, as he made the suggestion? Rose, at least, had felt no doubt upon the point.
Her ejaculatory reply, a sound rather than a distinct syllable, had been the “Tchah!” habitual to Mrs. Smith, as a contemptuous retort, on the rare occasions when words had failed her.
She had shaken hands with Sir Thomas, presented the side of her face for a slight and meaningless contact with that of her mother-in-law, and had thankfully been driven away from the door.
With the Lucians she was at her ease, and very happy until a letter arrived from Mrs. Lambert.
Rose read it with a deepening flush upon her face, and then went straight to Maurice Lucian.
“Look here, you’ve always known about Ces, and you’ve always said, like I do, that there’s a sort of kink in him somewhere that makes him like he is. I’m going to consult you.”
The doctor, seated before his writing-table, swung round in his revolving chair and faced her without speaking. His kind face and profound, intelligent eyes seldom showed either surprise or apprehension. Nevertheless, his expression habitually altered slightly when he spoke to Rose Aviolet. She had come by unperceived degrees to count upon that all-but-imperceptible softening of glance, that greater gentleness in the manner of his speech.
“I want you to read this. It’s from Mrs. Lambert, the schoolmaster’s wife. I told her about Ces before he ever went there.”