“How old are you, Miss Desmond?” The question came abruptly.
“I am nineteen.”
“You were surprised to find me so young. Will it add to your surprise if I tell you that I am ten years older than you?”
“I should have said not more than three or four years.”
“I am twenty-nine—seven years older than my husband's son.”
“It doesn't seem credible.”
“Are you wondering why I tell you my age?”
“Yes,” said Lydia bluntly.
“In order that you may realise that I am ten years wiser than you, and that you may not again make the mistake of under-estimating my intelligence.”
The colour faded from Lydia's face. She grew cold from head to foot. Involuntarily she moved back a pace. The next instant, to her unbounded surprise, Mrs Brood's hands were outstretched in a gesture of appeal, and a quick, wistful smile took the place of the imperious stare.