Inley started.
“Miss Sarah Bassett! What makes you think so?”
“Oh, while you were away in town she got ill. Didn’t you know?”
“No,” said Inley.
I could see that he was moved. His dark, short face had changed suddenly, and he stopped eating his fruit. Lady Inley went on crunching the bonbon between her little white teeth with all the enjoyment of a pretty marmoset.
“Influenza,” she said airily. “And then pneumonia. Of course, at her age, you know—— By the way, what is her age, Nino?”
“No idea,” said Inley shortly.
He was listening to the dim and monotonous sound of the church bell.
Lady Inley turned to me with the childish, confidential movement which men considered one of her many charms.
“Miss Bassett is, or was, one of those funny old spinsters who always look the same and always ridiculous. Dry twigs, you know. One size all the way down. Very little hair, and no emotions. If it weren’t for the sake of cats, one would wonder why such people are born. But they’re always cat-lovers. I suppose that’s why they’re so often called old cats.”