“Has she told you so?”
“Good heavens—no. But she never would.”
“She need not be alone,” observed Braybrooke. “She could have a companion to-morrow.”
“I can’t imagine her with a Fanny Cronin.”
“I don’t mean a dame de compagnie. I mean a husband.”
Craven’s ardent blue eyes looked a question.
“Seymour Portman is always there waiting and hoping.”
“Sir Seymour?” cried Craven.
“Well, why not?” said Braybrooke, almost with severity. “Why not?”
“But his age!”