“What?”
“Yes, I can. Jimmy had a perfectly deaf housekeeper, and it worried him to hear us shouting at each other, so I had her taught, and learned myself for fun.”
Henry crossed to the bookcase and came back with a photograph album in his hand. Taking a loose card from between the pages, he put it down in front of Jane, saying:
“There you may as well make your host’s acquaintance.”
Jane looked long at the face which was sufficiently well known to the public. The massive head, the great brow with eyes set very deep beneath shaggy tufts of hair, the rather hard mouth—all these were already familiar to her, and yet she looked long. After a few moments’ hesitation, Henry put a second photograph upon the top of the first, and this time Jane caught her breath. It was the picture of a woman in evening dress. The neck and shoulders were like those of a statue, beautiful and, as it were, rigid. But it was the beauty of the face that took Jane’s breath away—that and a certain look in the eyes. The word hungry came into her mind and stayed there. A woman with proud lips and hungry eyes, and the most beautiful face in the world.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Raymond Carr-Magnus. She is Lady Heritage, and a widow now—Sir William’s only child. He gave her a boy’s name and a boy’s education—brought her up to take his place, and found himself with a lovely woman on his hands. This was done from Amory’s portrait of her in 1915—the year of her marriage. She was at one time engaged to my Cousin Anthony. If you do go to Luttrell Marches, you will see her, for she makes her home with Sir William.”
Henry’s voice was perfectly expressionless. The short sentences followed one another with a little pause after each. Jane looked sideways, and said very quick and low:
“Were you very fond of her, Henry?”
And when she had said it, her heart beat and her hands gripped one another.