‘I—thought Tom was here,’ she said.
‘He has gone out riding—with Beau.’
‘With Beau?’ Lady Car breathed something that sounded like ‘Thank God!’
‘Is there anything wrong—with Tom?’ said Janet, gazing round upon her mother with defiance in her eyes.
‘Wrong? I hope not. They say not. Oh, God forbid!’ Lady Car put her hands together. She was very pale, with a little redness under her eyes.
‘Then, mother, if there’s nothing wrong, why do you look like that?’
‘Like that?’ Lady Car attempted a little laugh. ‘Like what, my dear?’ She added, with a long-drawn breath, ‘It is my foolish anxiety; everybody says it is foolish. It is plus forte que moi.’
‘I wish you would not speak French. Tom,’ said Janet, ‘is well enough, though he doesn’t look well. He ate no breakfast; and he looked as if he would like to take my head off. Isn’t Tom—very like father?’ she added, in a low voice.
They were standing at the foot of the picture, a full-length, which overbore them as much in reality as imagination, and made the woman and the girl look like pigmies at his feet. Carry gave a slight shiver in spite of herself.
‘Yes,’ she said faintly; ‘and, my dear—so are you too.’