“I felt that I could speak to you quite frankly,” Mrs. Torrington continued. “No one else seemed quite so accessible, no one really quite so close to him.”
“Of course, he has a lot of friends,” said Jerry humbly, and anxious to respond to the demand this fascinating woman was making upon his generosity.
“She’s going back to her husband; of course you know that.”
There was a degree of indignation in her tone, as though the person of whom she spoke was doing an unpardonable thing.
Jerry felt himself shrinking; his hands clutched the arms of his chair as it dawned upon him that it was Mrs. Copeland—not Nan—of whom Eaton’s sister was speaking. He was struck with fear lest she should read his thoughts as he realized how dull, how utterly selfish and contemptible, had been his apprehensions.
“I suppose,” said Mrs. Torrington, “that a man as fine as Cecil is doomed to just this kind of calamity.”
“I thought maybe it would be Nan,” he faltered. “I know he likes Nan, and he’s done a lot for her.”
Mrs. Torrington had been staring musingly into the fire. She turned toward him absently, and then, catching his meaning, her eyes widened with surprise.
“Nan,” she repeated slowly; and then, in her usual brisk tone, “A man like Cecil can’t be passed on from one affair to another so easily. And, besides,”—she smiled her charming, irresistible smile,—“that child is in love with you, you silly boy! It’s in her eyes! That’s the one hopeful thing about the situation—that together you two will take good care of him!”