She strolled off, humming a tune to herself. Lord Saxthorpe watched her with a shadow upon his plain, good-humoured face.
“Somehow or other,” he remarked quietly, “Mrs. Fentolin never seems to have got over the loss of her husband, does she? How long is it since he died?”
“Eight years,” Mr. Fentolin replied. “It was just six months after my own accident.”
“I am losing a great deal of sympathy for you, Mr. Fentolin,” Lady Saxthorpe confessed, coming over to his side. “You have so many resources, there is so much in life which you can do. You paint, as we all know, exquisitely. They tell me that you play the violin like a master. You have unlimited time for reading, and they say that you are one of the greatest living authorities upon the politics of Europe. Your morning paper must bring you so much that is interesting.”
“It is true,” Mr. Fentolin admitted, “that I have compensations which no one can guess at, compensations which appeal to me more as time steals on. And yet—”
He stopped short.
“And yet?” Lady Saxthorpe repeated interrogatively.
Mr. Fentolin was watching Gerald drive golf balls from the lawn beneath. He pointed downwards.
“I was like that when I was his age,” he said quietly.