"The kind of news to which I fear we shall have to grow accustomed," she said acidly. "It appears that Nan is getting herself talked about in connection with that artist who is painting her portrait."
By the time she had finished speaking Roger's face was like a thundercloud.
"What do you mean? What does Isobel say?" he demanded.
"You had better read the letter for yourself," replied his mother, pushing it towards him.
He snatched it up and read it hastily, then stood silently staring at it, his face white with anger, his eyes as hard as Lady Gertrude's own.
"It's a great pity you ever met Nan Davenant," pursued his mother, breaking the silence. "There's bad blood in the Davenants, and Nan will probably create a scandal for us one day. I understand she strongly resembles her notorious great-grandmother, Angèle de Varincourt."
"My wife will lead a very different kind of life from Angèle de
Varincourt," remarked Roger. "I'll see to that."
"It's a pity you didn't look nearer home for a wife, Roger," she observed. "I always hoped you would learn to care for Isobel."
"Isobel!"—with blank amazement. "I do care for her—she's a jolly good sort—but not in that way. Besides, she doesn't care for me in the slightest—except in a sisterly fashion."
"Are you sure of that? Remember, you've never asked her the question."
And with this final thrust, Lady Gertrude left him to his thoughts.