He went off and Cartwright braced himself. Mortimer meant to be nasty, but his languid malice bit deeper than he knew. Cartwright had hesitated, weighing the value of his wife's help against his scruples, until his step-son's hints had tipped the beam. After all, if he used Clara's money and saved his skin at her cost, the pup would have some grounds to sneer.
"I must keep control for some time yet," he said. "Times are bad, and if I let go the helm I doubt if my successor could steer a safe course. When the need is gone I'll willingly give up, but I must bring the old ship into port first. In the meantime, you had better let Stormont's buy you sound Corporation stock."
Mrs. Cartwright acquiesced and Cartwright watched the young people beyond the arch. With the stiff curtains for wing-scenes and the lights concealed, the end of the room made a proscenium: it was like looking at a drawing-room comedy on the stage. Two of the girls were pretty and he approved their fashionable clothes. When she was quiet, Grace was almost beautiful, but somehow none had Barbara's charm. Yet Cartwright thought the girl was getting thin and her color was too bright. A friend of Mortimer's occupied the music stool and Cartwright admitted that the fellow played well, although he was something like a character from a Gilbert opera.
Lister sat near the piano, and talked to Barbara, He smiled, but his smile had a touch of gravity. Cartwright thought him a good Canadian. A bit rugged perhaps, but staunch, and his quiet sincerity was after all better style than the cleverness of Mortimer's friends. Cartwright imagined Barbara studied Lister, who did not know. In fact, it looked as if he were puzzled, and Cartwright smiled. Lister had not his talents; when Cartwright was young he knew how to amuse a pretty girl.
The man at the piano signed to Barbara, who got up and began to sing. The song was modern and the melody not marked. Cartwright liked the Victorian ballads with tunes that haunted one and obvious sentiment, but because Barbara sang he gave the words and music his languid interest. After all, the thing was clever. There was, so to speak, not much on the surface, but one heard an elusive note of effort, as if one struggled after something one could not grasp. On the whole, Cartwright did not approve that kind of sentiment; his objects were generally plain. Then he thought the hint of strain was too well done for a young girl, and when Barbara stopped he turned to his wife.
"Are you satisfied about Barbara?" he asked.
"Why should I not be satisfied?"
"I have felt she's not quite up to her proper form. Looks thin and sometimes she's quiet. Then why has young Vernon gone off? I haven't seen him recently."
"Harry's in town; he goes home in a few days," Mrs. Cartwright replied. She hesitated and resumed, "I imagined he wanted to marry Barbara, although she told me nothing about this. Barbara does not tell one much."
"Do you think she likes him?"