“Where?”
“At Mrs. Cheston's ball last week.”
“Have you seen her since?”
“No—she won't let me come near her. Mr. Seymour passed me yesterday and hardly spoke to me.”
St. George canted his chair and zigzagged it toward the blazing hearth; then he said thoughtfully, without looking at the young man:
“Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish! Have you told your father?”
“No—he wouldn't understand.”
“And I know you didn't tell your mother.” This came with the tone of positive conviction.
“No—and don't you. Mother is daft on the subject. If she had her way, father would never put a drop of wine on the table. She says it is ruining the county—but that's mother's way.”
St. George stooped over, fondled one of the dogs for a moment—two had followed Todd out of the room—settled back in his chair again, and still looking into the fire, said slowly: