“Yes.”
“You shouldn’t have been allowed to do it,” said Mr Mariner warmly. “Major Selby—your uncle ought to have known better than to allow you.”
“Yes, oughtn’t he,” said Jill demurely.
There was another silence, lasting for about a quarter of a mile.
“Well, it’s a bad business,” said Mr Mariner.
“Yes,” said Jill. “I’ve felt that myself.”
The result of this conversation was to effect a change in the atmosphere of Sandringham. The alteration in the demeanor of people of parsimonious habit, when they discover that the guest they are entertaining is a pauper and not, as they had supposed, an heiress, is subtle but well-marked. In most cases, more well-marked than subtle. Nothing was actually said, but there are thoughts that are almost as audible as words. A certain suspense seemed to creep into the air, as happens when a situation has been reached which is too poignant to last. Greek Tragedy affects the reader with the same sense of over-hanging doom. Things, we feel, cannot go on as they are.
That night, after dinner, Mrs Mariner asked Jill to read to her.
“Print tries my eyes so, dear,” said Mrs Mariner. It was a small thing, but it had the significance of that little cloud that arose out of the sea like a man’s hand. Jill appreciated the portent. She was, she perceived, to make herself useful.