Featherstone paced up and down the library under the strain of considerable emotion, not to say excitement. Her Ladyship sat with an unread book on her knees gazing into nothingness.
“They’re a long time,” said Featherstone.
“Perhaps Angela——”
“Angela was sure,” he interrupted. “Dear, dear! I wish they’d come back.”
Lady Featherstone fidgeted.
“Claude, I don’t like this business at all. Oh heaven! to think of Angela married to a parvenu—a common nouveau riche!”
“She might do far worse. Angela herself realizes that. Conlan undoubtedly loves her. It’s for him to win her love. Once the marriage is celebrated, she need see him no more—er—that 82 is to say, they can make arrangements whereby they do not become a nuisance to each other. He is apparently fond of this place, and Angela is not. What could be more natural than for Angela to take a flat in town and Conlan to live here?”
Lady Featherstone shivered.
“You think this man will reconcile the situation, once it becomes plain to him? Claude, he is a veritable giant. I—I don’t like the look of him at all.... Oh, why couldn’t we have waited and found a husband for Angela in her own set!”
Featherstone shrugged his shoulders impatiently.