Forbes looked rather amused at her womanish view of things. "Friends? I should rather think so!"
By this time he and Diana were strolling up and down the winter garden opening out of the hall, which was now full of a merry crowd waiting for the departure of the shooters. Suddenly Forbes paused.
"Do you see that?"
Diana's eyes followed his till they perceived Lady Lucy sitting a little way off under a camellia-tree covered with red blossom. Her lap was heaped with the letters of the morning. Mr. Ferrier, with a cigarette in his mouth, stood beside her, reading the sheets of a letter which she handed to him as she herself finished them. Every now and then she spoke to him, and he replied. In the little scene, between the slender white-haired woman and the middle-aged man, there was something so intimate, so conjugal even, that Diana involuntarily turned away as though to watch it were an impertinence.
"Rather touching, isn't it?" said the youth, smiling benevolently. "Of course you know--there's a romance, or rather was--long ago. My mother knew all about it. Since old Marsham's death, Lady Lucy's never done a thing without Ferrier to advise her. Why she hasn't married him, that's the puzzle.--But she's a curious woman, is Lady Lucy. Looks so soft, but--" He pursed up his lips with an important air.
"Anyhow, she depends a lot on Ferrier. He's constantly here whenever he can be spared from London and Parliament. He got Oliver into Parliament--his first seat I mean--for Manchester. The Ferriers are very big people up there, and old Ferrier's recommendation of him just put him in straight--no trouble about it! Oh! and before that when he was at Eton--and Oxford too--Ferrier looked after him like a father.--Used to have him up for exeats--and talk to the Head--and keep his mother straight--like an old brick. Ferrier's a splendid chap!"
Diana warmly agreed.
"Perhaps you know," pursued the chatterbox, "that this place is all hers--Lady Lucy's. She can leave it and her money exactly as she pleases. It is to be hoped she won't leave much of it to Mrs. Fotheringham. Isn't that a woman! Ah! you don't know her yet. Hullo!--there's Marsham after me."
For Marsham was beckoning from the hall. They returned hurriedly.
"Who made Oliver that waistcoat?" said Lady Niton, putting on her spectacles.