“Oh, no—no!” he exclaimed, with almost unnecessary earnestness, and looking even slightly embarrassed. “I only wished to know your opinion. I value your opinion so very highly.”
She got up to stir the fire. He sprang, or rather got, up too, rather quickly, to forestall her. But she persisted.
“I know my poker so well,” she said. “It will do things for me that it won’t do for anyone else. There! That is better.”
She remained standing by the hearth, looking tremendously tall.
“I don’t think I have an opinion,” she said. “Beryl would be a brilliant wife for any man. Mr. Craven seems a very pleasant boy. They might do admirably together. Or they might both be perfectly miserable. I can’t tell. Now do tell me about Paris. Did you see Caroline Briggs?”
When Braybrooke left Berkeley Square that day he remembered having once said to Craven that Lady Sellingworth was interested in everything that was interesting except in love affairs, that she did not seem to care about love affairs. And he had a vague feeling of having, perhaps, for once done the wrong thing. Had he bored her? He hoped not. But he was not quite sure.
When he had gone, and she was once more alone. Lady Sellingworth rang the bell. A tall footman came in answer to it, and she told him that if anyone else called he was to say, “not at home.” As he was about to leave the room after receiving this order she stopped him.
“Wait a moment.”
“Yes, my lady.”
She seemed to hesitate; then she said: