“Judging the foolish women! Well, I think you are one of the few who would have a right to do that. You are so marvellously sensible.”
“Anyhow, I have no wish to do it. But—you were going to tell me?”
“In confidence.”
“Of course. The book of wisdom never opens its leaves to the mob.”
“I want very much to know your opinion of young Alick Craven.”
As she heard the word “young” Lady Sellingworth had great difficulty in keeping her face still. Her mouth wanted to writhe, to twist to the left. She had the same intense shooting feeling that had hurt her when Seymour Portman had called Alick Craven a boy.
“Of Mr. Craven!” she said, with sudden severe reserve. “Why? Why?”
Directly she had spoken she regretted the repetition. Her mind felt stiff, unyielding. And all her body felt stiff too.
“That’s what I want to tell you,” said Miss Van Tuyn, speaking with some apparent embarrassment.
And immediately Lady Sellingworth knew that she did not want to hear, that it would be dangerous, almost deadly, for her to hear. She longed to spread out her hands in the protesting gesture of one keeping something off, away from her, to say, “Don’t! Don’t! I won’t hear!” And she sat very still, and murmured a casual “Yes?”