And her concentrative force was such that while one person interested her, she lived in a small world, half of which was in blackest shadow, half in brightest light, and in the shadow she stood, watching the only other person who, for the time being, existed.
Bess Fraser, after dinner, told her, quite without knowing it, the whole story of her own rather absurd love for the boy.
She had once been engaged to Dudley Cleeves; she had known Teddy as a little fellow in long sailor trousers and white blouses; he had had the dearest curls—had Lady Harden noticed that the close-cropped hair turned up at the ends even now?
He had been an obstinate child, always good-tempered but always bent on his own way. He was his mother’s pet, and was by her always plentifully supplied with money, so that the world was for him a smiling place.
He had insisted on going into the navy—or, rather, he had not insisted; he had simply taken for granted that he was to go, and he had gone.
He had always been in love, but never with one girl for long. “Of course, he’s a perfect child,” Mrs. Fraser added, with elaborate carelessness.
She herself had been a widow for five years. She was a magnificently beautiful woman, much handsomer than Lady Harden, but she did not know her own points, and wore the wrong colors.
Lady Harden, watching her while she talked, knew how ashamed she was of her love for Teddy Cleeve, and, constitutionally kind and comforting, the younger woman tried to put her at her ease by chiming in with her tone of detached, middle-aged friendliness toward the beautiful youth.
“He is a dear boy,” she agreed; “I do like to see him dance! He’s so big and strong. Billy, my boy, is going to be big, too, and I only hope he’ll turn out like this Teddy!”
And Teddy, attracted, while rather frightened, by the idea of Mrs. Fraser’s caring for him, made love to her spasmodically, just to convince himself, and then, convinced by something in her voice, fled to Lady Harden for protection, and was scolded by her.