Leo Ulford’s good humour returned as abruptly as it had departed. Her glance at him, as she spoke, had seemed to hint at a secret understanding between them in which no one—certainly not his father—was included.
“Pater can tell you all about the pictures,” he said, with a comfortable assurance, which he did not strive to disguise, that she would be supremely bored.
He stared at her hard, gave a short laugh, and lounged away.
When he had gone, Sir Donald still seemed embarrassed. He looked at Lady Holme apologetically, and in his faded eyes she saw an expression that reminded her of Lady Cardington. It was surely old age asking forgiveness for its existence.
She did not feel much pity for it, but with the woman of the world’s natural instinct to smooth rough places—especially for a man—she began to devote herself to cheering Sir Donald up, as they slowly made their way through room after room towards the distant sound of the music.
“I hear you’ve been plunging!” she began gaily.
Sir Donald looked vague.
“I’m afraid I scarcely—”
“Forgive me. I catch slang from my husband. He’s ruining my English. I mean that I hear you’ve been investing—shall I say your romance?—in a wonderful place abroad, with a fascinating name. I hope you’ll get enormous interest.”
A faint colour, it was like the ghost of a blush, rose in Sir Donald’s withered cheeks.