Lydia fidgeted.
"Well, you see, I admire Mr. Delorme's work as much as ever. But—"
"You don't like Mr. Delorme? The greatest egotist I ever saw," said the uncompromising Susan, who, as a dramatist, prided herself on a knowledge of character.
"Ah, but a great, great painter!" cried Lydia. "Don't dissuade me, Susan.
Professionally—I must do it!"
"It's not because Mr. Delorme is an egotist, that you don't want to go away," said Susan, quietly. "It's for quite a different reason."
"What do you mean?"
"It's because—no, I don't mind if I do make you angry!—it's because you're so desperately interested in Mr. Faversham."
"Really, Susan!" The cloud of hair was thrown back, and Lydia's face emerged, the clear, indignant eyes shining in the candlelight.
"Oh, I don't mean that you're in love with him—wish you were! But you're roping him in—just like Lord Tatham. And as he's the latest, he's the most—well, exciting!"
Susan with her chin in her hands, and her dusky countenance very much alive, seemed to be playing her sister with cautious mockery—feeling her way.