“But after all,” he said, “it’s an ill wind, you know. But for the little episode in question, I might never have had the pleasure of getting to know you so well.”
“No,” said Imogen, with the sort of bluntness of manner which was, somehow, one of her charms, “that’s true.” Then there fell a little silence.
“Major Winchester,” said Imogen after a moment or two.
“Miss Wentworth?” he replied.
“You mustn’t mind my saying so,” she began, “but do you know I can’t help thinking you are all a little hard upon Trixie.”
His face darkened at once.
“How so?” he said.
Imogen hesitated.
“It’s very difficult to answer when you’re asked like that,” she said, pouting a little. But her companion seemed to have lost his playfulness. He did not speak.
“I mean—I mean,” she went on, “that because she’s spoilt, perhaps, and rather noisy, and—and what you call loud or fast sometimes, you all, you and her sister, and even her brother,”—with a glance round to make sure that Florence was not within earshot—“seem to think there’s no good in her.”