"Who is this Geoffrey Heath you speak of so incessantly?" he demanded. "There was a Heath, I remember, who had a place near us in the country, and kept a barroom or a butcher's shop or something in town."
"That was the father," replied Lydia, with a shudder which deepened the slightly scornful curve of her lip. "He was a respectable old man, I believe, and made his fortune quite honestly, however it was. It was only after his son began to grow up that he became socially ambitious——"
"And is that all you have against him?"
"Oh, there's nothing against the old man—nothing at least except the glaring bad taste he showed in that monstrous house he built in Henry Street. He's dead now, you know."
"Then the son has all the money and the house, too, hasn't he?"
"All he hasn't wasted, yes."
As she spoke she subsided into a chair, with a graceful, eddying motion of her black chiffon draperies, and continued the conversation with an expression of smiling weariness. All her attitudes were effective, and he was struck, while he stood, embarrassed and awkward, before her, by the plaintive grace that she introduced into her smallest gesture. Though he was aware that he saw her now too clearly for passion, the appeal of her delicate fairness went suddenly to his head.
"Then there's not much to be said for the chap, I suppose?" he asked abruptly, fearing the prolonged strain of the silence.
"Very little for him, but a good deal about him, according to Cousin Paulina. It seems that three years ago he was sent away from the University for something disgraceful—cheating at cards, I believe; and since then he has been conspicuous chiefly because of his low associations. How Alice met him, I could never understand—I can't understand now."
"And do you think she cares for him—that she even imagines that she does?" he demanded, while his terror rose in his throat and choked back his words.