Well into the early morning Lady Dashwood had lain awake thinking, and listening mechanically to the gentle breathing of the girl beside her, and thinking—thinking of May's strange exhibition of emotion. Was May——? No—that made things worse than ever—that made the irony of her brother's fate more acute! That was a tragic thought! But it was just this tragic thought that made Lady Dashwood now at the breakfast table observe with a subtle keenness of observation and yet without seeming to observe, or even to look. She sat there, absorbing May, absorbing the Warden, measuring them, weighing them while she tried to eat a piece of toast, biting it up as if she had pledged herself to reduce it to the minutest fragments.
"Perhaps I'm not fair to Mr. Boreham," said May, shaking her head. "But I am an ignoramus. How can one," she said smiling, but keeping her eyelids still downcast, "how can one combine the bathing of babies and feeding them, the dressing and undressing of them, the putting them to bed and getting them up again, with any culture (spelt with a 'c'). I get only a short and rather tired hour of leisure in the evening in which to read?"
"You do combine them," he said, still bending towards her with the same tense look. "Only one woman in a thousand would."
The colour had slightly risen in May's face, and now it died away, for she was aware that no sooner were the last words spoken than the Warden seemed to regret them. At least he stiffened himself and looked away from her, stared at nothing in particular and then put out his hand to take a piece of toast, making that simple action seem as if it were a protest of resolute indifference to her.
May felt as if his hand had struck her. She had partly succeeded in her effort and she had refused to glance at him. But she had not succeeded in thinking of something else, and now this simple movement of his hand made thoughts of him burn in her brain. Why did this man, with all his erudition, with his distinction, with all his force of character, his wide sympathies and his curious influence over others, why did this man with all his talk (and this she said bitterly) about life and death—and yes—about eternity, why did he bind himself hand and foot to a selfish and shallow girl? He who talked of life and of death, could he not stand the test of life himself?
The Warden rose from the table the moment that he had finished and looked at his sister. She had put her letters aside and appeared to have fallen into a heavy preoccupation with her own thoughts.
"Can I see you—afterwards—for a moment in the library, Lena?" he asked.
Lady Dashwood's tired face flushed.
"I will come very soon," she said, and she pushed her chair back a little, as if to cover her embarrassment, and looked at her niece. "May," she said, in a voice that did not quite conceal her trouble, "we ought to start at a quarter to ten. That will give us two clear hours for our work."
May bent her head in assent. Neither of them was thinking of the Club. They could hear the Warden close the door behind him. Then Lady Dashwood rose and casting a silent look at May, went out of the room.