“For the sake of the ladies of the family, won’t you be reasonable? Wait a little; calm down a little, and then hear what there is to be said on the other side.”
“There’s nothing to be said, Miss Davison, nothing, that is to say, that I could listen to or believe. You must really excuse me. It’s with the men of the family that I have to deal. Or at least with the fellow Denver. But I suppose it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other, and that while one cheats at poker, the other does at bridge!”
Under the influence of the lady’s gentle talk, Sir William had grown, not only too coherent, but so definite and precise in his accusations, so sweeping in his charges, that every ear was strained to catch what he said, and Denver, lounging on the sofa, grew perceptibly redder as he was forced to listen too.
But Miss Davison, determined to end this painful scene in her own way, took the young baronet’s arm, almost as if she had been taking him into custody, and insisted on his leading her—or more properly being led by her—into the adjoining room, where Mrs. Van Santen, still the picture of woe, was sitting in her high-backed chair, and receiving the condolences of one or two of the ladies, while the others went into the music-room, with the exception of Lady Sylvia, who, much disgusted at the scene she had been forced to witness, had ordered her car round and taken her departure.
“Say something nice to the old lady, do, Sir William,” pleaded Rachel coaxingly in his ear.
“How can I say anything nice to her, when I know her son is a card—”
Miss Davison would not let him finish.
“You know nothing certainly,” she broke in quickly. “You suspect, but that’s not enough. Do pray remember what you owe to all of us, and whatever you may think or fancy, keep your suspicions to yourself until you can talk things over quietly with another man.”
“But I’m certain—” began he again.
“Well, tell what you think to—to—let me see—Mr. Buckland and Mr. Aldington. They saw everything. Let them judge.”