Lady Jane favoured her with a frosty glance.
“Yes, he has. Perhaps you will excuse me from talking about it. I object to the discussion of diseases at social gatherings.”
Claire’s cheeks grew hotter still. A quick retort came to her lips.
“I wasn’t going to discuss it! I only mentioned it for—for something to say. I couldn’t think how else to begin!”
The droop of Lady Jane’s eyelids inferred that it was really quite superfluous to begin at all. Claire waited a whole two minutes by the clock, and then made another effort.
“I hear we are to have some music later on.”
“Sorry to hear it,” said Great-aunt Jane.
“Really! I was so glad. Aren’t you fond of music, then?”
“I am very fond of music,” said Aunt Jane, and there was a world of insinuation in her voice. Without a definite word being spoken, the hearer was informed that good music, real music, music worthy the name, was a thing that no sane person would expect to hear at Mrs Willoughby’s “At Homes.” She was really the most terrifying and disconcerting of old ladies, and Claire heartily repented the impulse which had brought her to her side. A pretty thing it would be if she were left alone on this sofa for the rest of the evening!
But fortune was kind, and from across the room came a good angel who was so exactly a reproduction of Mrs Willoughby herself, minus half her age, that it must obviously be her daughter. Janet Willoughby was not a pretty girl, but she looked gay, and bright, and beaming with good humour, and at this moment with a spice of mischief into the bargain. The manner in which she held out her hand to Claire was as friendly as though the two girls had been friends for years.