“What sort of lady, please? A lady of the ballet?”
“Oh, no!” Alan cried, giving a little start of horror. “Quite different from that. A real lady.”
“They always are real ladies—for the most part brought down by untoward circumstances,” his father responded coldly. “As a rule, indeed, I observe, they’re clergyman’s daughters.”
“This one is,” Alan answered, growing hot. “In point of fact, to prevent your saying anything you might afterwards regret, I think I’d better mention the lady’s name. It’s Miss Herminia Barton, the Dean of Dunwich’s daughter.”
His father drew a long breath. The corners of the clear-cut mouth dropped down for a second, and the straight, thin eyebrows were momentarily elevated. But he gave no other overt sign of dismay or astonishment.
“That makes a great difference, of course,” he answered, after a long pause. “She is a lady, I admit. And she’s been to Girton.”
“She has,” the son replied, scarcely knowing how to continue.
Dr Merrick twirled his thumbs once more, with outward calm, for a minute or two. This was most inconvenient in a professional family.
“And I understand you to say,” he went on in a pitiless voice, “Miss Barton’s state of health is such that you think it advisable to remove her at once—for her confinement, to Italy?”
“Exactly so,” Alan answered, gulping down his discomfort.