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"Well, you can tell him so," said Mary. Sir Richard frowned. His daughter's manners seemed to him at times abrupt. "Why do you see so little now of Elizabeth Tranmore?" he asked her, with a sharp look. "You used to be always there. And I don't believe you even write to her much now." "Does she see much of anybody?" "Because, you mean, of Tranmore's condition? What good can she be to him now?
Yet now as he saw the faces of mother and son together the mother leaning on the son's arm and realized all the strength of the social ideas which they represented, even though, in Ashe's case, there had been a certain individual flouting of them, futile and powerless in the end the Dean gave way. "There there!" he said, as he finished his plea, and Lady Tranmore's sad gravity remained untouched.
Lady Tranmore's affection for her, which had at one time even included the notion that she might possibly become William Ashe's wife, did not at all interfere with a shrewd understanding of her limitations. But she was daughterless herself; her family feeling was strong; and Mary's society was an old and pleasant habit one could ill have parted with. In her company, moreover, Mary was at her best.
Lady Tranmore's patience almost departed, Mary's look was so penetrated with indulgence for the prejudices of a dear but unreasonable relation. But she managed to preserve it. "And you knew he was coming home?" "Oh yes!" said Mary. "I meant to have told you at dinner. But something put it out of my head Kitty, of course! I shouldn't wonder if he were at the embassy to-night."
Her air of well-bred sympathy, the measured ease of her movements, contrasted with Lady Tranmore's impatience. Yet in truth she was listening no less sharply than her companion to the sounds in the street outside. Lady Tranmore made her way to the window, and stood there looking out on the park. It was the week before Easter, and the plane-trees were not yet in leaf.
And, taking off her gloves and hat, Margaret French went to the writing-table like one intimately acquainted with the room and its affairs, took up a pile of cards and envelopes which lay upon it, and, bringing them to Lady Tranmore's side, began to work upon them. "I did about half yesterday," she explained; "but I see Kitty hasn't been able to touch them, and it is really time they were out."
Well, Mary, I sha'n't, of course, be rude to any friend of yours. But don't expect me to be effusive. And please remember that my acquaintance with Geoffrey Cliffe is older than yours." Mary made a caressing reply, and gave her mind for the rest of the drive to the smoothing of Lady Tranmore's ruffled plumes. But it was not easy.
It seemed to her that she was a dead creature, floating in a dead world. William had ceased to love her. She had wrecked his career and destroyed her own happiness. Her child had been taken from her. Lady Tranmore's affection had been long since alienated. Her own mother was nothing to her; and her friends in society, like Madeleine Alcot, would only laugh and gloat over the scandal of the book.
Yes, it was certainly surprising that Mary had not married. Lady Tranmore's thoughts were running on this tack when of a sudden her eyes were caught by the placard of one of the evening papers. "Interview with Mr. Cliffe. Peace assured." So ran one of the lines. "Geoffrey Cliffe home again!" Lady Tranmore's tone betrayed a shade of contemptuous amusement.
Then, still disregarding another imploring look from Lady Tranmore, he left the room. Kitty had flushed angrily. The belittling, malicious note in Ashe's manner had been clear enough. She braced herself against it, and Lady Tranmore's chance was lost.
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