'That is my business,' replied Dulcie, who, truth to say, was beginning to meditate a flight from Craigengowan—whither, she knew not and cared not.
Shafto was again silent and alarmed. With all his brilliant surroundings, he never knew what a day or night might bring forth.
'After long experience of the world,' says Junius, 'I affirm before God that I never knew a rogue who was not unhappy.'
'We always want what we cannot have, I suppose,' said Dulcie, after a pause. 'You are like the fox and the grapes, Mr. Shafto, in more ways than one; only the fox displayed superior sense by retiring when he found the coveted clusters beyond his reach, in persuading himself that they were sour; hence I would advise you to imitate the proceedings of the fox.'
Shafto turned away and withdrew without a word, as he beheld the almost noiseless approach of Lady Fettercairn from a conservatory door, with her cold, steel-blue eyes, more steely than ever, her light-brown hair, and firm aristocratic lips.
Like most fair women, she looked much younger than her years, and, as we have said in an opening chapter her really fine face was without a line, as she had never had a cross or care in the world, save the alleged mésalliance of Lennard with Flora MacIan, and that, in a general way, was all forgotten now.
As she fixed her gaze on Dulcie, the expression of her face was hostile and lowering.
While feeling certain that something unpleasant was impending, Dulcie tried to greet her with a smile, though 'the faculty of looking pleased when one's heart is sick unto death—of fulfilling with equanimity a hundred petty social exactions, which one's wearied soul loathes—is a talent verging on the border-land of genius.'
'Miss Carlyon,' began Lady Fettercairn, most freezingly, 'to my surprise I overheard you giving some advice in a remarkable and apparently very familiar way to my grandson, Mr. Shafto Melfort?'
The remark was a question; but before Dulcie, in her confusion, could form any reply, Lady Fettercairn spoke again.