“Well,” he said, when they were alone, or nearly so, “do you not admit that it was a most unique performance?”
“Hush!” replied the lady, either because she was a woman or because she was a woman of the world. “The poor girl cannot help it. She is forced into it by the exigencies of society, and her mother. It is not entirely her fault.”
“It will be entirely my fault,” replied Sir John, “if I see her do it again.”
“It does not matter about a man,” said Lady Cantourne, after a little pause; “but a woman cannot afford to make a fool of herself. She ought never to run the risk of being laughed at. And yet I am told that they teach that elegant accomplishment at fashionable schools.”
“Which proves that the schoolmistress is a knave as well as—the other thing.”
They passed down the long room together—a pattern, to the younger generation, of politeness and mutual respect. And that which one or other did not see was not worth comprehension.
“Who,” asked Sir John, when they had passed into the other room, “who is the tall fair girl who was sitting near the fireplace?”
He did not seem to think it necessary to ask Lady Cantourne whether she had noticed the object of his curiosity.
“I was just wondering,” replied Lady Cantourne, stirring her tea comfortably. “I will find out. She interests me. She is different from the rest.”
“And she does not let it be seen—that is what I like,” said Sir John. “The great secret of success in the world is to be different from other people and conceal the fact.” He stood his full height, and looked round with blinking, cynical eyes. “They are all very like each other, and they fail to conceal that.”