“Where?”
“At Marlbury!”
“Good gracious! That is where Marjorie used to go to school!”
“Yes, it was when I went down to see her there, and—”
“You met this woman you married? And her name?”
“Joan,” he said—“Joan Meredyth!”
“Joan—Meredyth!” said Lady Linden. She closed her eyes; she leaned back in her chair. “That girl!”
A chill feeling of alarm swept over him. She spoke, her ladyship spoke, as though such a girl existed, as though she knew her personally. And the name was a pure invention! Marjorie had invented it—at least, he believed so.
“You—you don’t know her?”
“Know her—of course I know her. Didn’t Marjorie bring her here from Miss Skinner’s two holidays running? A very beautiful and brilliant girl, the loveliest girl I think I ever saw! Really, Hugh Alston, though I am surprised and pained at your silence and duplicity, I must absolve you. I always regarded you as more or less a fool, but Joan Meredyth is a girl any man might fall in love with!”