“A woman is always ten years older than a man. You ought to know that.”
“And that proves?”
“That you ought to go into the world and win fame and mix with the brilliant men and women in London who can appreciate you.”
“I don't want to mix with more brilliant men and women than those who are under this roof of Woodlands,” said Sylvester.
Ella flushed again, but this time she drooped her eyes and bent her head over her sewing for some time abandoned. A smile played round her lips.
“Your Aunt Agatha, for instance.”
“No, dear soul. The other two.”
He rose and filled his pipe from a tobacco jar on the mantel-piece. The room, furnished with the solid mahogany and leather of a bygone generation, was his father's particular den, where, however, of all rooms in the house, he was least likely to find the privacy for which it was set apart. Ella, during her periodical visits to Ayresford, calmly monopolised it; Sylvester strolled in naturally from his widowed house over the way; Miss Agatha Lanyon, although she pretended to cough at the smoke, would leave her knitting promiscuously about on chairs and tables, while the little grandchild Dorothy spilled the ink with impunity over the Turkey carpet.
There was a silence while Sylvester lit his pipe and settled down again in the leathern armchair by the fire.
“I want no better company than the dear old man's, and yours,” said he.