‘I have met him once.’
Immediately, all Nancy’s suspicions were revived. She had felt a desire to talk of intimate things, with mention of her mother’s name; but the repulsion excited in her by this woman’s air of subtlety, by looks, movements, tones which she did not understand, forbade it. She could not speak with satisfaction even of Horace, feeling that Mrs. Damerel’s affection, however genuine, must needs be baleful. From this point her part in the dialogue was slight.
‘If any of Miss. French’s relatives,’ said the visitor presently, ‘should accuse me to you, you will be able to contradict them. I am sure I can depend upon you for that service?’
‘I am not likely to see them; and I should have thought you would care very little what was said about you by people of that kind.’
‘I care little enough,’ rejoined Mrs. Damerel, with a curl of the lips. ‘It’s Horace I am thinking of. These people will embitter him against me, so long as they have any ground to go upon.’
‘But haven’t you let him know of that letter?’
Mrs. Damerel seemed to fall into abstraction, answered with a vague ‘Yes,’ and after surveying the room, said softly:
‘So you must live here alone for another two or three years?’
‘It isn’t compulsory: it’s only a condition.’
Another vague ‘Yes.’ Then: