“Four or five thousand?—ten, even? You know, Duggy, many men have built up fortunes again on no more. A few weeks ago I had all sorts of ideas.”
“That’s no good,” said Douglas, with emphasis. “For God’s sake, father, don’t begin again.”
Sir Arthur nodded silently, and Douglas left the room.
His father remained sitting where his son had left him, his fingers drumming absently on the arms of his chair, his half-shut eyes wandering over the splendid garden outside, with its statues and fountains, and its masses of roses, all fused in the late evening glow.
The door opened softly. His wife came in.
Lady Laura had lost her old careless good humour. Her fair complexion had changed for the worse; there were lines in her white forehead, and all her movements had grown nervous and irritable. But her expression as she stood by her husband was one of anxious though rather childish affection.
“How are you, Arthur? Did you get a nap?”
“A beauty!” said her husband, smiling at her, and taking her hand. “I dreamt about Raby, and the first time I saw you there in the old Duke’s day. What a pretty thing you were, Laura!—like a monthly rose, all pink.”
He patted her hand; Lady Laura shrugged her shoulders rather pettishly.
“It’s no good thinking about that now.... You’re not really going to have a shooting-party, Arthur? I do wish you wouldn’t!”