Mrs. Blair’s face flushed a little, and a beautiful angry light burned in her eyes, as it always did at the slightest implication that Blair was not perfect.
“Luckily for me,� she said, with a little arrogant air, “my husband and children are worthy of it. All that I know of unworthy husbands and children is about other women’s husbands and children.�
“Yes, yes,� eagerly assented Bulstrode, and then went off again on the subject of his grievances about Miles Lightfoot and the races, and even that Lewis Pryor was getting too fond of the stables and stayed there too much, and he meant to speak to Skelton about it.
Bulstrode left Mr. and Mrs. Blair under the impression that there was some queer complication connected with the late Mrs. Skelton’s money, with which they were mixed up, and it gave rise naturally to much speculation on their part.
They talked it over a great deal, but they had nothing positive to go upon. Elizabeth, womanlike, tried to dismiss it from her mind, and the more so when she saw that Blair was deeply pondering it. At all events, Skelton would keep his own until his death, for neither of them believed he would marry again; and as he was not quite forty—some years younger than Blair himself—it was idle to think too much about what was so far in the future.
Bulstrode was as good as his word about Lewis Pryor, and the very next day made his complaint about Lewis to Skelton.
“Send him to me,� said Skelton briefly.
In due time Lewis stood before Skelton in the library, through whose diamond-paned windows the woods and fields glowed beautifully under the red December sun. Skelton began in his calm, reasonable voice:
“Lewis, Mr. Bulstrode tells me that you spend most of your time with Yellow Jack and the stablemen, instead of at your books. How is this?�
“Because, sir,� answered Lewis, “I am very fond of horses, and I’m not doing any harm down at the stables.�