She had listened in consternation, a rage for battle rising in her. She was sure Teevan must have some end in view hurtful to Ewing. Yet this was cunningly hidden. She was still puzzling over this when Sydenham recalled her. He had forgotten Ewing, and studied the red light that fell across the table through a shade of silk.
"What fools we are to think of painting shadows! If heaven's the place it's said to be they'll have real shadows put in up tubes, and then—well, think of it!"
She laughed at him, her brief laugh, with a sigh to follow.
"We must go to the others. But, Herbert, you'll watch him as well as you can, won't you? I feel responsible for him in a way."
He hesitated, but the light came. "Oh, you mean Ewing? Of course I'll watch him. I dare say he'll paint some day, after a fashion." He fumbled for the knob and awkwardly opened the door for her.
When the men went Mrs. Laithe asked if she might not linger a moment.
"Dear Aunt Kitty!" she said, going to the other's chair. "Old Kitty!" she repeated meaningly. The elder woman glanced quickly at her in faint alarm, half questioning, half defiant.
"Oh, Aunt Kitty! I know—I know! and I must talk of him. I suspected something almost from the first, and then I made sure. But I thought that perhaps no one else would find it out. And he was worth it—he is worth it. I couldn't have left him there, even if I'd been sure that everyone would know. He was a man—he had the right to live."
"My child, my child! Oh, you didn't know what you were doing! It was a monstrous thing, an impossible thing!"
"He's Kitty's son. You must feel for him."