"Marcus might have come in," she added. "But of course he wouldn't—or couldn't."
"Doesn't he care for pictures?"
She slightly shrugged her shoulders.
"He used to. But I don't know that he does now."
"I suppose he has a tremendous amount to do."
"He used to do much more at Liverpool. If a man wishes to come to the front he mustn't sit in an armchair with folded hands."
There was a sharp sound of criticism in her voice which astonished Malling. At the luncheon, only about a fortnight ago, she had shown herself plainly as the adoring wife, anxious for her husband's success, nervously hostile to any one who interfered with it, who stood between him and the homage of his world. Now Malling noted, or thought he noted, a change in her mental attitude. He was instantly on the alert.
"I'm sure that's the last thing Mr. Harding would do," he said.
She shot a glance at him out of her discontented dark eyes.
"Are you?" she said.