"Will you have something to drink?" she asked.
It was a curious scene; the dainty little room with the swivel-table
laid for one, the pretty, well-preserved woman, looking down with real
pity but something very near scorn at the broken, haggard, untidy man
sprawling in a rose-coloured chair.
"You are a fool, Tony," he said roughly. "I tell you I know."
"Bosh. You know perfectly well that I was never silly about my children.
Well--I don't care what you say about Brigit, I _know_ she is all right.
As yet, anyway," she added.
"She loves that--that brute," he stammered, wiping the perspiration from
his face with a crumpled handkerchief. "I saw her face as she left his
studio."
Lady Kingsmead pursed her mouth thoughtfully.
"That may be," she admitted. "I've thought for some time that something
was in the air----"
Breaking off, she glanced hastily at him. The old habit of telling him
her thoughts as they came to her was still strong, but this was not her
Gerald Carron. This was a new man of whom she knew little. For this much
wisdom she had learned: that every new love makes a new man of a man.
And this Carron, with his wild eyes, was no person to confide in.
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