“Oh, no, it won’t hurt him.”
They often deferred thus, politely, to one another’s judgment in matters concerning Cecil, Lady Aviolet from a conscientious desire to respect the rights of motherhood, and Rose from some strange, elementary idea of diplomacy.
“Laurence Charlesbury is a particularly charming person, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do.” Rose’s reply was emphatic, after her fashion.
“We have known him for many years, and I am particularly fond of him.”
“What was his wife like?”
“She had a good deal of foreign blood in her, I believe, but otherwise she was delightful. She was only twenty-four when she died. Such a pretty creature, too.”
“What was her name?” Rose asked abruptly. She was conscious of an impelling curiosity.
“Mona le Breton. Her father was the well-known polo-player, you know.”
Rose, of course, did not know, and was a good deal more interested in trying to obtain some glimpse of the personality that had lain behind the romantic name.