Yes, that must be what she was afraid of, what inspired her with an undefined wretchedness. If she had been what they thought her, surely she would be feeling nervous. She was glad she had not made the mistake of pretending to be gay.
"I am an old friend of your husband's," said the Duchess, "—and he has asked me to be kind to you. I shan't warn you to beware of Julia; all the rest of them will, if they haven't already;—but I don't call that kindness."
"Barnaby asked you to be kind to me?" repeated Susan; she could not keep the wistfulness out of her voice; she had been thinking herself so utterly forgotten.
"Yes. It isn't the fashion here for husbands to worry about their wives, but he is a bit old-fashioned. I told him I'd come and talk to the little fish out of water. It is just a strange pond, my dear, and you'll soon begin swimming."
The clash of voices grew more uproarious in the hall. A man put his head in and vanished, looking for somebody. His brief appearance made the contrast between the excitement out there and this empty room more emphatic.
"I must get out of this," said the Duchess, switching her train as she rose from the sofa. "Kitty will have to lend me a habit and one of her husband's coats. I shall ride. There's a brook jump where there'll be trouble, and I want to see the fun. You had better drive with Kitty. I'll see to it. Have you anything warm to put on?"
Her caution was hardly equal to her good nature, and the clamour in the hall hardly drowned her indignant voice as she seized on a confidant in the doorway.
"I like her pluck. She's terrified to death, of course, but she doesn't look woe-begone. We must seem a pack of dangerous lunatics.... Where do these Americans get their spirit?"
"You don't read history, do you, Duchess?"
"Why?"