She made a little gesture with her hand, a hand so frail that Fayre turned his eyes away from it quickly. His protest was as much for his own reassurance as for hers.
“I don’t think Edward’s of the kind to lose anything once he’s got it,” he asserted with a cheeriness he tried to feel. “He’s a very lucky man, Sybil.”
He was more moved than he cared to show, and for a time he sat smoking in silence. When he spoke, it was to lead the conversation back to its original subject.
“I’m intrigued about our friend the minx,” he said. “What’s she up to that she should arrive at country houses in the middle of the night?”
Lady Kean laughed.
“That’s an exaggeration of Edward’s. She’s motoring over and dining with a Miss Allen on the way. She’ll probably be here before twelve. As to what she’s up to, I’ve got my own suspicions.”
Fayre settled himself comfortably in his chair.
“This is gossip,” he said fervently. “Tell me some more.”
“It isn’t gossip; on the contrary, it’s solid fact. Cynthia is at present engaged in bringing down her mother’s grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. The result is that she’s having rather a thin time at home just now.”
“It’s a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Cynthia’s mother,” remarked Fayre thoughtfully. “But I seem to remember that I never liked her.”