“Did you see Lily Larking’s wreath? It was too droll,” were her first words.
Lord Alberic briefly replied that he had not.
“It was scandalous that it was allowed to pass the church doors,” said Hurstmanceaux. “I suppose they did not know.”
“Of course they did not know; who should have heard of Lily Larking in Somersetshire? We can go up to town to-night, can’t we, Ronnie?”
“Do you wish it? There is a ten o’clock train. The children would be better in bed.”
“That does not matter. I want to be in town.”
She was anxious to get away from Staghurst, which had grown hateful to her, and was very desirious to learn something which she could only learn in London, viva voce, from her own lawyer, Mr. Gregge, a gentleman who had not been invited to either of the funerals, though his existence, as her confidential adviser, had been known to both the families.
She and her brother and brother-in-law dined together at eight o’clock. She was silent and pre-occupied.
“Who would ever have imagined that any woman would lament Cocky’s loss?” thought Alberic Orme; and Hurstmanceaux thought, “Souvent femme varie, bien fol qui s’y fie. The idea of her mourning for Cocky!” They could not see into her mind, which was gloomy and troubled, like the dark old ponds which were lying black under a fitful moonlight in the melancholy park without.
Both the men who accompanied her up to town were perplexed. The tears which rose to her eyes, the unmistakable trouble in her expression, the look of anxiety and sorrow were genuine; there was no doubt about it. Lord Alberic, who had always been very cold to her, wondered if he had done her injustice all these years, and Hurstmanceaux, who knew her better, thought: “She counted on having a rattling good time on the succession, and she’s really sorry that little blackguard is dead.”