“Unselfish people, as a rule, are deathly dull. They have no colour. They think of other people because it is easier. They give money because they are too stupid or too idle to spend it properly on themselves. That was the beauty of your mother—she gave away, but she also spent on herself, or tried to.”
The light faded out of the drawing-room, in spite of it being September and only half-past six. From her low chair Agnes could see the trees by the drive, black against a blackening sky. That drive was half a mile long, and she was praising its gravelled surface when Rickie called in a voice of alarm, “I say, when did our train arrive?”
“Four-six.”
“I said so.”
“It arrived at four-six on the time-table,” said Mr. Wonham. “I want to know when it got to the station?”
“I tell you again it was punctual. I tell you I looked at my watch. I can do no more.”
Agnes was amazed. Was Rickie mad? A minute ago and they were boring each other over dogs. What had happened?
“Now, now! Quarrelling already?” asked Mrs. Failing.
The footman, bringing a lamp, lit up two angry faces.
“He says—”