“Alick Craven was with us, too.”
“The boy I met here one Sunday.”
Lady Sellingworth felt an almost fierce flash of irritation as she heard him say “boy.”
“He’s hardly a boy,” she said. “He must be at least thirty, and I think he seems even older than he is.”
“Does he? He struck me as very young. When he went away with that pretty girl it was like young April going out of the room with all the daffodils. They matched.”
The intense irritation grew in Lady Sellingworth. She felt as if she were being pricked by a multitude of pins.
“Beryl is years and years younger than he is!” she said. “I don’t think you are very clever about ages, Seymour. There must be nearly ten years difference between them.”
Scarcely had she said this than her mind added, “And about thirty years’ difference between him and me!” And then something in her—she thought of it as the soul—crumpled up, almost as if trying to die and know nothing more.
“What is it, Adela?” again he said, gently. “Can’t I help you?”
“No, no, you can’t!” she answered, almost with desperation, no longer able to control herself thoroughly.