She came in without speaking, and, drawing off her long gauntlets, folded them neatly together, and sat down, facing him.
Julian's eyes moved toward her as she entered; but he gave her no further greeting, and after a speculative glance his eyes returned to the ceiling.
"It's a pity," said Lady Verny, thoughtfully, "that poor child has to go back to the town hall next week, a dreadful, drafty place, and be made love to by a common little town clerk."
Julian's eyes flickered for a moment, but did not change their position.
"Town clerks," he observed, "are, I feel sure, distinguished persons who confine their passions to rates and taxes."
"That must make it all the more trying," said Lady Verny. "But I don't mind the town clerk as much as I mind the drafts. Stella had pleurisy before she came here; and you know what girls who do that kind of work eat—ghastly little messes, slopped on to marble tables, and tasting like last week's wash."
"Well, why the devil doesn't she look for another job?" Julian asked irritably. "She has brains enough for twenty. That's what I dislike about women: they get stuck anywhere. No dash in 'em, no initiative, no judgment." It was not what he disliked about women.
"She has tried," said Lady Verny. "The man she hoped to get a job from wouldn't have her. She tried this morning."
Julian's eyes moved now; they shot like a hawk's on to his mother's, while his body lay as still as a stone figure on a tomb.
"Then it was a trap," he said coldly. "I wondered. I thought we'd settled you were going to leave me alone."