“Well, after all, she can’t help that.”
“Other people manage to,” said Miss Pinsent skeptically.
“But isn’t it rather unfair of Lady Susan—considering that nothing is known about them?”
“But, my dear, that’s the very thing that’s against them. It’s infinitely worse than any actual knowledge.”
Lydia mentally agreed that, in the case of Mrs. Linton, it possibly might be.
“I wonder why they came here?” she mused.
“That’s against them too. It’s always a bad sign when loud people come to a quiet place. And they’ve brought van-loads of boxes—her maid told Mrs. Ainger’s that they meant to stop indefinitely.”
“And Lady Susan actually turned her back on her in the salon?”
“My dear, she said it was for our sakes: that makes it so unanswerable! But poor Grossart is in a way! The Lintons have taken his most expensive suite, you know—the yellow damask drawing-room above the portico—and they have champagne with every meal!”
They were silent as Mr. and Mrs. Linton sauntered by; the lady with tempestuous brows and challenging chin; the gentleman, a blond stripling, trailing after her, head downward, like a reluctant child dragged by his nurse.