Until Sir Peter returned Lady Laxton sat quite still just as he had left her on his bed, aghast.
She could not even pray.
The sun had still to rise; the room was full of that cold weak inky light, light without warmth, knowledge without faith, existence without courage, that creeps in before the day. She waited.... In such a mood women have waited for massacre....
Downstairs a raucous shouting....
She thought of her happy childhood upon the Yorkshire wolds, before the idea of week-end parties had entered her mind. The heather. The little birds. Kind things. A tear ran down her cheek....
§ 11
Then Sir Peter stood before her again, alive still, but breathless and greatly ruffled.
She put her hands to her heart. She would be brave.
“Yes,” she said. “Tell me.”
“He’s as mad as a hatter,” said Sir Peter.