“I was referring to my husband,” said Mrs Brood, unabashed. “He is very rich, isn't he?”
Lydia managed to conceal her annoyance. “I think not, as American fortunes are rated.”
“It doesn't matter,” said the other carelessly. “I have my own fortune. And it is not my face,” she added with her quick smile. “Now let us look farther. I must see all of these wonderful things. We will not be missed, and it is still half an hour till tea-time. My husband is now telling his son all there is to be told about me—who and what I am, and how he came to marry me. Not, mind you, how I came to marry him, but—the other way round. It's the way with men past middle age.”
Lydia hesitated before speaking.
“Mr Brood does not confide in Frederic. I am afraid they have but little in common. Oh, I shouldn't have said that!”
Mrs Brood regarded her with narrowing eyes.
“He doesn't confide in Frederic?” she repeated in the form of a question. Her voice seemed lower than before.
“I'm sorry I spoke as I did, Mrs Brood,” said the girl, annoyed with herself.
“Is there a reason why he should dislike his son?” asked the other, regarding her fixedly.
“Of course not,” cried poor Lydia.