"That is very clever of you, Miss Wayne," he said gravely, "and I'm sure your management must be most tactful. But—if you'll excuse me suggesting it—wouldn't it be cleverer still of you if you refrained from hinting as much to your father?"
"You mean the really clever women never let the men know they're doing it?" Her grey eyes laughed into his. "You are quite right, of course—but then I don't pretend to be clever. I don't think clever people—clever women, anyway—are ever happy."
"Don't you?" Somehow Anstice felt extraordinarily interested in the views of this very youthful woman. "May I be allowed to know what has driven you to that conclusion?"
"Oh, it's not exactly my own." Iris' eyes were honest as well as gay. "It was something Mrs. Carstairs said to me one day. She is clever, you know—but her life has been made very unhappy."
Anstice, who had already wondered how much of Chloe Carstairs' history was known to the Waynes, glanced involuntarily at Sir Richard as Iris spoke the last words; and in the elder man's eyes he thought he saw a hint of trouble.
"I should judge Mrs. Carstairs to be a well-read woman," he said, endeavouring to change the subject while ostensibly pursuing it. "She has a good many books about her, though of course nothing like your collection here."
He glanced at the walls as he spoke, and Sir Richard took up the new topic easily.
"I don't know whether you are a reader, Dr. Anstice," he said, "but if so, and you're short of reading matter, don't hesitate to borrow some of our books. We've all sorts, eh, Iris?"
"Thanks very much. I'm not a great reader—haven't time; but your books look rather alluring," said Anstice, with a smile.
"We'll have a look round after tea," returned his host. "In the meantime pass your cup—this weather makes one thirsty."