But she came this night with a reason beyond her wish to please. So eager was she to ask Sydenham about Ewing that she gave scant attention to the searching looks and queries of Birley when she entered the drawing room. The big man rallied her on her pallor and frailness, but with a poor spirit that hardly concealed his real misgiving. She silenced him with impatient denials of illness, but his eyes lingered anxiously on her face.
She sat at table with but half an ear for their old-time gossip, the bantering gallantries of the aged swains, and the outworn coquetries of the one-time beauty. And when they fell silent—oftener now than was their wont, for each was thinking of that other Kitty Lowndes, who had taken matters into her own hands—she forgot to make talk, silent herself for thinking on the son of that Kitty. The dinner lacked the sparkle she had been expected to give it.
As they were about to rise, after coffee, she playfully petitioned for a chat with Sydenham.
"Herbert wants to smoke, and I want to sit here with him. We need a little talk together," she explained. And the other two left them, the old lady leaning on the arm of Birley.
Sydenham lighted a cigar, pushed his chair back, and faced the woman who looked eagerly at him across the disordered table, her arms along its edge, her head tilted to a questionable angle. She flew to her point.
"What about Gilbert Ewing—what trouble is he having?"
Sydenham stared vacantly. He seemed to find it necessary to translate the question into some language of his own.
"Trouble? Oh, all sorts—chrome and indigo, yellow ocher, burnt umber, rose madder, Chinese white—composition, light and shade, vanishing points. You'd have to be one of us to understand."
"Other trouble," she insisted sharply—"personal—not about his painting."
Sydenham stared again, clutching his beard in a dazed search for inspiration. He did not consider people apart from painting. It was impossible that anyone should wish to discuss Ewing except in relation to colors and canvas.