She burst out into a laugh, and rose, turning her face to the fire.
‘No; at the worst of little pins to prick, little pins that don’t draw blood, as you say, but still make a wound. Now, Leo, though we quarrel, you will not refuse to give me your arm upstairs?’
The drawing-room was also illuminated by a blazing fire, and groups of candles placed about which made it very bright, unlike the gloom of the room below; bright, yet with all manner of soft shades and contrivances to temper the light. It was full of flowers and sweetness, full of luxury. Mrs. Swinford paused and looked round with a satirical smile. ‘Charming!’ she said; ‘and a little more or less feudal, grand seigneur, as we have been saying, with all that is novel and delightful added; but vacant, Leo. Were we in Paris, one would come, and then another and another, to talk, or chat round the fire; to bring the news, to discuss everything, spiritual, gay. These words have no meaning here.’
‘I fully feel it for you, mother. It is very dull; no one worth your trouble to talk to. I understand perfectly. But why not, then, fill the house?’
‘For what end? There is not even shooting to tempt them at this time of the year. Nothing to amuse. It is not the time. In the autumn, perhaps, if I survive it so long——’
‘Then there is London,’ said Leo; ‘it is not exactly a village, though I believe it is a happy slang to call it so. Let us go there.’
‘London!’ Mrs. Swinford contracted her brows. ‘I have forgotten all my friends, or they have forgotten me. I don’t go to Court——’
‘Why not, mother?’
She looked at him with a gleam of fury in her eyes, and a sort of wild laugh, which was the most unlike mirth of anything Leo had ever heard. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘Emily Plowden would present me once again—whitewashed, after all these years.’
‘What do you mean by whitewashed, mother?’ There was something then in the look with which he faced her, insisting with a flush on his face, and a look of determination for which she was not prepared.