“Do—try.” Lord Barnstaple could be very charming when he chose; he tossed aside his cynical impassivity as it were a mask, and assumed an expression of profound and tender interest. His son was the only living being that he loved, and he had planned for an uninterrupted interview with Lee in order to ascertain, as far as was possible, what were Cecil’s prospects of happiness. He liked and admired his daughter-in-law as far as he knew her, but he despised and distrusted all women, and he had heretofore hated Americans with monotonous consistency.
Lee was very susceptible to a warm personal interest, and this was the first she had experienced in England. And she was in a surcharged state of mind to speak out freely at the first sign of unmistakable sympathy. Lord Barnstaple took the one step farther that was necessary.
“I am not given to sentimentalising, but I love Cecil. And next to him, I want you to regard me as your best friend in England.”
He was rewarded and somewhat taken aback by an enthusiastic hug and a kiss on either cheek. He laughed, but he felt more amiably disposed toward Americans.
“Now, tell me,” he said, “why do you want Cecil to be ambitious? Do you want a great political salon?”
“I shouldn’t mind a bit, but that’s not the reason. The more Cecil wanted of life, the more he’d be dependent on me for consolation and encouragement—the most successful have so many disappointments. If he went through life animated by duty alone, content with the niche he drifted into, he’d close up at all points, become a mere spoke in the wheel, without a weak spot that I could get at. And then he would be dull. It’s in Cecil to become terribly solid or to spread out in several different directions. I want him to spread out.”
“Ah! I see you have done some thinking, if you are a mere child.”
“I’m no child—really. I took care of my mother and did all her thinking for five years, and I have been treated like an individual, not like an Englishman’s necessary virtue, ever since. I’ve managed my own business affairs; I’ve read more books than any woman in this house; I’ve had heaps and heaps of men in love with me; and I’ve done a lot of thinking—particularly about Cecil.”
Lord Barnstaple at another moment might have smiled, but for the present his concern had routed his cynicism.
“You look as if you’d merely been made to fall in love with,” he said gallantly. “But I am surprised and gratified. Tell me what you have been thinking about Cecil.”