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Updated: June 12, 2025
Ingham-Baker, stout and cringing, in a ludicrous purple dressing-gown. "May I come and warm myself at your fire, dear?" she inquired humbly; "my own is so low." "That," said Agatha, "is because you are afraid of the servants." Mrs. Ingham-Baker closed the door and came towards the fire with surreptitious steps.
Ingham-Baker, while the two girls sat side by side opposite to them. Fitz was at the foot of the table. In the course of conversation the Spaniard leant across and said to Agatha "Have you seen this month's Commentator, Miss Ingham-Baker?" An unaccountable silence fell upon the assembled guests. Eve Challoner's face turned quite white. Her eyes were lowered to her plate.
As soon as the door was closed Mrs. Ingham-Baker was on her feet. She crossed the room to where her hostess's key-basket and other belongings stood upon a table near the window. She stood looking eagerly at these without touching them. She even stooped down to examine the address of an envelope. "Mr. Pawson!" she said, in a breathless whisper. "Mr. Pawson what does that mean?
Harrington wrote at her desk, and Mrs. Ingham-Baker read the Times. "I have come," he remembered saying, "to bid you good-bye." He heard again the rustle of Mrs. Ingham-Baker's newspaper, and again he saw the look in Agatha's eyes as they met his. He would remember that look to the end of his life; he was living on it now. Agatha, in her rather high-pitched society tones, was the first to speak.
Agatha Ingham-Baker had long before conceived a strange suspicion namely, that Eve and Fitz loved each other. She had absolutely nothing to base her suspicions upon, not so much even as the gossips of Majorca. And nevertheless her suspicions throve, as such do, and grew into conviction. Agatha had come down early to the drawing-room on purpose to establish her right over Fitz.
They did more, they defied death; for surely such love as this is stronger than the mere end of life. Again it was the possibility of something good and something strong that lurked hidden behind the worldliness of Agatha Ingham-Baker, and Luke FitzHenry, of all men, alone had the power of bringing that possibility to the surface.
"I should be sorry if Mrs. Harrington was drawn into any legal difficulty; the law is so complicated." Susan was engaged in looking for a speck of dust on the mantelpiece, not for its own intrinsic value, but for the sake of Mary's future. She had apparently no observation of value to offer upon the vexed subject of the law. "I was rather afraid," pursued Mrs. Ingham-Baker gravely, "that Mrs.
Ingham-Baker. "I shall die quite happy if my Agatha marries such a man as Henry will be." Mrs. Harrington glanced at her voluminous friend rather critically. "You do not look like dying yet," she said. Mrs. Ingham-Baker put her head on one side and looked resigned. "One never knows," she answered. "It is a great responsibility, Marian, to have a daughter."
She gazed long and curiously as if seeking something in the pleasant reflection. "Did she say anything more about Fitz?" she asked suddenly, with an obvious change of the subject which Mrs. Ingham-Baker did not attempt to understand. She was not a subtle woman. "Nothing." Agatha came back and sat down.
For Agatha Ingham-Baker was essentially human and womanly, in that she was, and ever would be, a creature of possibilities. She took up her long gloves and began slowly to draw them on. They were quite new, and she smoothed them with a distinct satisfaction, under which there brooded the sense of a new possibility.
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