She
remembered it like that, once in the park at Widrington, when he lost
his temper with a pony and came galloping past her, sitting back, his
curly hair stivered up like a little demon's. And she said sadly:
"You can hardly expect me to like it for you, Bryan, even if she is what
you say. And isn't there some story about--"
"My dear mother, the more there is against her, the more I shall love
her--that's obvious."
Lady Summerhay sighed again.
"What is this man going to do? I heard him play once."
"I don't know. Nothing, I dare say. Morally and legally, he's out of
court. I only wish to God he WOULD bring a case, and I could marry her;
but Gyp says he won't."
Lady Summerhay murmured:
"Gyp? Is that her name?" And a sudden wish, almost a longing, not a
friendly one, to see this woman seized her. "Will you bring her to see
me? I'm alone here till Wednesday."
"I'll ask her, but I don't think she'll come." He turned his head away.
"Mother, she's wonderful!"
An unhappy smile twisted Lady Summerhay's lips. No doubt! Aphrodite
herself had visited her boy. Aphrodite! And--afterward? She asked
desolately:
"Does Major Winton know?"
"Yes."
"What does he say to it?"
"Say? What can anyone say? From your point of view, or his, it's rotten,
of course. But in her position, anything's rotten."
At that encouraging word, the flood-gates gave way in Lady Summerhay,
and she poured forth a stream of words.
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