“Do you believe Nigel cares still for Julia?”
“Don’t I? But he’s strong, if you like. He can’t marry her in England, so he thinks of her as little as possible and does the work of two men.”
“But if he can’t marry her?”
“I’ll tell you something if you’ll vow not to tell Julia—or Mr. Tay.”
“Very well.”
“France has been having bad heart attacks. I have it from Aunt Peg.”
“Julia is as likely to hear it from the same source.”
“Not she. The duke has forgiven her, but has no desire to be reminded that he has a suffragette in the family. Never reads the Militant news, and all the rest of it. So Julia spares his feelings and never goes there. (I spare him the sight of me!) I don’t want her to know it until Mr. Tay is safely at home in his absorbing San Francisco. It would never do, Ishbel. I’d like to see Julia happy myself, but she can’t leave England. And she’d be happier with Nigel, for he’s her own sort. I like Mr. Tay; he’s really frightfully attractive—but—after Part I of love-plus-matrimony had run its course, they’d have a bad time adapting themselves. The real tyrants are the masterful Americans, because in their heart of hearts they regard women as children, handle them subtly, won’t fight in the open. Now remember, you’ve promised. If Mr. Tay found out that France was likely to die any minute, he’d ‘camp’ here, as he expresses it, until he could marry Julia out of hand. He has a jaw, as you’ve observed yourself.”
“Yes,” said Ishbel. “I’ve promised, but I rather wish I hadn’t. I like fair play.”
“We are in war,” said Mrs. Maundrell, coolly. “Good night.”