She was conscious of being closely under observation.
Morosine did not once lose sight of her. Whatever he said was addressed to
her. Once, when she looked at him, she saw the gleam of knowledge in his
eyes. He and Ingram never spoke to each other directly; indirectly
Morosine capped whatever Ingram said. It was these two who maintained the
talk through her sensitive frame.
Melusine and her husband exchanged glances--she in obedience to his
fidgety heels. He had dug a hole in the gravel deep enough to bury a
kitten. Her curtsey--it was almost that--to Lady Maria was very pretty.
She drew in her suffering sister, almost embraced her. "Dearest, dearest!"
she whispered. Sanchia, who was very pale, made no answer, and hardly
returned the salute.
"Insufferable beggar," was Gerald Scales' outburst. "I could have shot him
at sight. But you women will go through with it, I suppose."
"Oh, Gerald," faltered Melusine, "it's dreadful--but what can she do?"
"Pon my soul, I'd take Morosov--the Polish party--what's-his-name--first.
I would indeed--on the whole."
There was nothing to say. Melusine knew that could not be.
Lady Maria, however, who never made a fuss over spilt milk, lost no time
in ladling up what might be possible.
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