The lawyer’s jealousy had been chiefly aroused by the perpetual uneasiness of Eleanor’s manner when Launcelot Darrell was present; by the furtive yet unregarded watch which she kept upon the young man’s movements. To-night, for the first time, her manner had changed. It was no longer Launcelot Darrell, but Richard Thornton whom she watched.
Following every varying expression of her face, Gilbert Monckton saw that she looked at the scene-painter with an earnest, questioning, appealing glance, that seemed to demand something of him, or urge him on to the performance of something that she wanted done. Looking from his wife to Richard, the lawyer saw that Launcelot Darrell was still watched; but this time the eyes that observed him were those of the Signora’s nephew.
Mr. Monckton felt very much like a spectator who looks on at a drama which is being acted in a language that is unknown to him. The dramatis personæ come in and go out; they are earnest or vehement, joyous or sorrowful, as the case may be; but not having any clue to the plot, the wretched looker-on can scarcely feel intense delight in the performance.
Eleanor contrived to question her ally in the course of the evening.
“Well, Richard,” she said, “is Launcelot Darrell the man who cheated my father?”
“I don’t know about that, Mrs. Monckton, but——”
“But you think——?”
“I think he is by no means the most delightful, or the best of men. He snubs me because I paint scenery for the Phœnix; and he accepts that silly little girl’s homage with the air of a sultan.”
“Then you don’t like him, Dick!”
Mr. Thornton drew a long breath, as if by some powerful effort of his will he repressed a vehement and unseemly expression of feeling.