The acquaintance between Sacha and Mark’s wife was not long in blossoming into an intimacy.
Mark was boisterously glad to welcome Sacha, and Christina’s vanity was flattered and soothed. A portrait was instantly started, and Sacha began to go to Sunstead at all hours. It was quite by chance that this information came to Valentine’s ears.
He was not altogether deceived by his brother’s sweetness. He knew Sacha could be very selfish. Neither was Val altogether in sympathy with the life the younger man had chosen; but still he was far from imagining how little real depths there was in Sacha’s professed affection, and it gave him a shock when Grace’s maid, Ellen, in casual mention of Sunstead and its inmates, spoke of Sacha’s constant presence there, and of the wonderful picture he was painting.
Ellen was in the habit of going up constantly to old Lady Wentworth, so there could be no doubt there must be an element of some truth in what she said.
Val was in his new “den” when this new annoyance came to him.
Ellen had brought him a cup of coffee and a batch of letters by the afternoon post. She was in the habit of chatting familiarly with both her master and mistress.
Valentine sat frowning after she had gone. He saw in this more of Christina’s clever and spiteful work, and at this, the beginning, did not blame his brother so much.
“Sacha cannot resist a beautiful woman. As far as I am concerned, he can go as often as he likes; but I am not thinking of myself in this business now. The woman’s treatment of Grace puts a different complexion on everything, and I must resent it. Sacha’s friendship will complicate matters. I wondered why he did not go back to town.”
Valentine opened his letters mechanically, and ran through them indifferently.
They were all business except one, which bore an Italian stamp. Glancing at the signature, Valentine’s face took a gleam of pleasure. He liked Hubert Kestridge sincerely.