“Frightful. He is an emaciated wreck and he has no physical cause for remaining alive.”
Feather made three or four stitches.
“Does Mrs. Muir know?” she said.
“If Mrs. Muir is conscious of his miserable existence, that is all,” he answered. “She is not the woman to inquire. Of course she cannot help knowing that—when he is done with—her boy takes his place in the line of succession.”
“Oh, yes, she’d know that,” put in Feather.
It was Coombe who smiled now—very faintly.
“You have a mistaken view of her,” he said.
“You admire her very much,” Feather bridled. The figure of this big Scotch creature with her “line” and her “splendid grace and harmony” was enough to make one bridle.
“She doesn’t admire me,” said Coombe. “She is not proud of me as a connection. She doesn’t really want the position for the boy, in her heart of hearts.”
“Doesn’t want it!” Feather’s exclamation was a little jeer only because she would not have dared a big one.