the time to find out? He’s at least better than the others.”
“The ‘others’?”—Lady Grace was blank for them.
“The others of his set.”
“Oh, his set! That wouldn’t be difficult—by what I imagine of some of them. But he means well enough,” the girl added; “he’s very charming and does me great honour.”
It determined in her companion, about to leave her, another brief arrest. “Then may I tell your father?”
This in turn brought about in Lady Grace an immediate drop of the subject. “Tell my father, please, that I’m expecting Mr. Crimble; of whom I’ve spoken to him even if he doesn’t remember, and who bicycles this afternoon ten miles over from where he’s staying—with some people we don’t know—to look at the pictures, about which he’s awfully keen.”
Lady Sandgate took it in. “Ah, like Mr. Bender?”
“No, not at all, I think, like Mr. Bender.”
This appeared to move in the elder woman some deeper thought “May I ask then—if one’s to meet him—who he is?”
“Oh, father knows—or ought to—that I sat next him, in London, a month ago, at dinner, and that he then told me he was working, tooth and nail, at what he called the wonderful modern science of Connoisseurship—which is upsetting, as perhaps you’re not aware, all the old-fashioned canons of art-criticism, everything we’ve stupidly thought right and held dear; that he was to spend Easter in these parts, and that he should like greatly to be allowed some day to come over and make acquaintance with our things. I told him,” Lady Grace wound up, “that nothing would be easier; a note from him arrived before dinner–”
Lady Sandgate jumped the rest “And it’s for him you’ve come in.”
“It’s for him I’ve come in,” the girl assented with serenity.
“Very good—though he sounds most detrimental! But will you first just tell me this—whether when you sent in ten minutes ago for Lord John to come out to you it was wholly of your own movement?” And she followed it up as her young friend appeared to hesitate. “Was it because you knew why he had arrived?”
The young friend hesitated still. “‘Why ‘?”
“So particularly to speak to you.”
“Since he was expected and mightn’t know where I was,” Lady Grace said after an instant, “I wanted naturally to be civil to him.”
“And had he time there to tell you,” Lady Sand-gate asked, “how very civil he wants to be to you?”
“No, only to tell me that his friend—who’s off there—was coming; for Kitty at once appropriated him and was still in possession when I came away.” Then, as deciding at last on perfect frankness, Lady Grace went on: “If you want to know, I sent for news of him because Kitty insisted on my doing so; saying, so very oddly and quite in her own way, that she herself didn’t wish to ‘appear in it.’ She had done nothing but say to me for an hour, rather worryingly, what you’ve just said—that it’s me he’s what, like Mr. Bender, she calls ‘after’; but as soon as he appeared she pounced on him, and I left him—I assure you quite resignedly—in her hands.”
“She wants”—it was easy for Lady Sandgate to remark—“to talk of you to him.”
“I don’t know what she wants,” the girl replied as with rather a tired patience; “Kitty wants so many things at once. She always wants money, in quantities, to begin with—and all to throw so horribly away; so that whenever I see her ‘in’ so very deep with any one I always imagine her appealing for some new tip as to how it’s to be come by.”
“Kitty’s an abyss, I grant you, and with my disinterested devotion to your father—in requital of all his kindness to me since Lord Sandgate’s death and since your mother’s—I can never be too grateful to you, my dear, for your being so different a creature. But what is she going to gain financially,” Lady Sand-gate pursued with a strong emphasis on her adverb, “by working up our friend’s confidence in your listening to him—if you are to listen?”
“I haven’t in the least engaged to listen,” said Lady Grace—“it will depend on the music he makes!” But she added with light cynicism: “Perhaps she’s to gain a commission!”
“On his fairly getting you?” And then as the girl assented by silence: “Is he in a position to pay her one?” Lady Sandgate asked.
“I dare say the Duchess is!”
“But do you see the Duchess producing money—with all that Kitty, as we’re not ignorant, owes her? Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds!”—Lady Sandgate piled them up.
Her young friend’s gesture checked it. “Ah, don’t tell me how many—it’s too sad and too ugly and too wrong!” To which, however, Lady Grace added: “But perhaps that will be just her way!” And then as her companion seemed for the moment not quite to follow: “By letting Kitty off her debt.”
“You mean that Kitty goes free if Lord John wins your promise?”
“Kitty goes free.”
“She has her creditor’s release?”
“For every shilling.”
“And if he only fails?”
“Why then of course,” said now quite lucid Lady Grace, “she throws herself more than ever on poor father.”
“Poor father indeed!”—Lady Sandgate richly sighed it
It appeared even to create in the younger woman a sense of excess. “Yes—but he after all and in spite of everything adores her.”
“To the point, you mean”—for Lady Sandgate could clearly but wonder—“of really sacrificing you?”
The weight of Lady Grace’s charming deep eyes on her face made her pause while, at some length, she gave back this look and the interchange determined in the girl a grave appeal. “You think I should be sacrificed if I married him?”
Lady Sandgate replied, though with an equal emphasis, indirectly. “Could you marry him?”
Lady Grace waited a moment “Do you mean for Kitty?”
“For himself even—if they should convince you, among them, that he cares for you.”
Lady Grace had another delay. “Well, he’s his awful mother’s son.”
“Yes—but you wouldn’t marry his mother.”
“No—but I should only be the more uncomfortably and intimately conscious of her.”
“Even when,” Lady Sandgate optimistically put it, “she so markedly likes you?”
This determined in the girl a fine impatience. “She doesn’t ‘like’ me, she only wants me—which is a very different thing; wants me for my father’s so particularly beautiful position, and my mother’s so supremely great people, and for everything we have been and have done, and still are and still have: except of course poor
