‘Before you tell that little story,’ she interposed, ‘you had better know what I’ve come about. It’s a queer thing that Mrs. Damerel should be here; happens more conveniently than things generally do. I had something to tell you about her. You may know it, but most likely you don’t.—You remember,’ she faced the other listener, ‘when I came to see you a long time ago, I said it might be worth while to find out who you really were. I haven’t given much thought to you since then, but I’ve got hold of what I wanted, as I knew I should.’
Crewe did not disguise his eagerness to hear the rest. Mrs. Damerel stood like a statue of British respectability, deaf and blind to everything that conflicts with good-breeding; stony-faced, she had set her lips in the smile appropriate to one who is braving torture.
‘Do you know who she is—or not?’ Beatrice asked of Crewe.
He shuffled, and made no reply.
‘Fanny has just told me in a letter; she got it from her husband. Our friend here is the mother of Horace Lord and of Nancy. She ran away from her first husband, and was divorced. Whether she really married afterwards, I don’t quite know; most likely not. At all events, she has run through her money, and wants her son to set her up again.’
For a few seconds Mrs. Damerel bore the astonished gaze of her admirer, then, her expression scarcely changing, she walked steadily to the door and vanished. The silence was prolonged till broken by Beatrice’s laugh.
‘Has she been bamboozling you, old man? I didn’t know what was going on. You had bad luck with the daughter; shouldn’t wonder if the mother would suit you better, all said and done.’
Crewe seated himself and gave vent to his feelings in a phrase of pure soliloquy: ‘Well, I’m damned!’
‘I cut in just at the right time, did I?—No malice. I’ve had my hit back at her, and that’s enough.’
As the man of business remained absorbed in his thoughts, Beatrice took a chair. Presently he looked up at her, and said savagely: