“The death!” exclaimed Isabel. “Indeed I have not.”
“He died last night, in London, after a week’s illness. I heard it by. chance at my club. They say it was the consequence of an accident on the ice last winter.”
Isabel became thoughtful.
“Probably Miss Warren will hear of it very shortly,” Asquith remarked.
“I don’t know, I’m sure. I can’t even say whether she is in communication with Mr. Lacour. But it does not concern us. You won’t, of course, mention the news.”
She spoke of it in private with Mrs. Stratton.
“Whatever the state of things may be,” said the latter, “I don’t see that this can alter it practically. The match becomes a respectable one, that’s all. And he can’t marry at once.”
“Ada, in any case, won’t marry till next June; I’m sure of that,” said Isabel.
Nothing was said openly, nor did Ada appear to receive any news which affected her.
The heat of the weather was excessive; only the mildest kinds of recreation could be indulged in. In the afternoon there was much seeking for cool corners, and a favourite spot was that embowered portion of the shrubbery in which we first saw Isabel. Tea was brought here. Colonel Stratton lay on the grass, deep-contemplative; his wife read a novel; Robert Asquith smoked cigarettes, and was the chief talker. Sandhurst Stratton was in the stables, a favourite haunt, and Ada sat by herself in the library.