They were in an open space, dusty, with half-timber buildings whose demolition had been interrupted. Christopher halted close to a post that had once been a cannon; up against this he felt that his brother could lean in order to assimilate ideas. He said slowly and patiently:
"If you're consulting with me as to how to carry out our father's intentions, and as there's money in it you had better make an attempt to get hold of the facts. I wouldn't bother you if it wasn't a matter of money. In the first place, no money is wanted at this end. I can live on my pay. My wife is a rich woman, relatively. Her mother is a very rich woman. . . ."
"She's Rugeley's mistress, isn't she?" Mark asked.
Christopher said:
"No, she isn't. I should certainly say she wasn't. Why should she be? She's his cousin."
"Then it's your wife who was Rugeley's mistress?" Mark asked. "Or why should she have the loan of his box?"
"Sylvia also is Rugeley's cousin, of course, a degree further removed," Tietjens said. "She isn't anyone's mistress. You can be certain of that."
"They say she is," Mark answered. "They say she's a regular tart. . . . I suppose you think I've insulted you."
Christopher said:
"No, you haven't. . . . It's better to get all this out. We're practically strangers, but you've a right to ask."