She rose abruptly from the table. The effort of her life was to shake
herself free of the remembrances which haunted her perpetually as they
were haunting her now. Her memory was her worst enemy; her one refuge
from it was in change of occupation and change of scene.
"May I go into the conservatory, Lady Janet?" she asked.
"Certainly, my dear."
She bent her head to her protectress, looked for a moment with a steady,
compassionate attention at Horace Holmcroft, and, slowly crossing the
room, entered the winter-garden. The eyes of Horace followed her, as
long as she was in view, with a curious contradictory expression
of admiration and disapproval. When she had passed out of sight the
admiration vanished, but the disapproval remained. The face of the young
man contracted into a frown: he sat silent, with his fork in his hand,
playing absently with the fragments on his plate.
"Take some French pie, Horace," said Lady Janet.
"No, thank you."
"Some more chicken, then?"
"No more chicken."
"Will nothing tempt you?"
"I will take some more wine, if you will allow me."
He filled his glass (for the fifth or sixth time) with claret, and
emptied it sullenly at a draught. Lady Janet's bright eyes watched him
with sardonic attention; Lady Janet's ready tongue spoke out as freely
as usual what was passing in her mind at the time.
"The air of Kensington doesn't seem to suit you, my young friend," she
said. "The longer you have been my guest, the oftener you fill your
glass and empty your cigar-case. Those are bad signs in a young man.
When you first came here you arrived invalided by a wound. In your
place, I should not have exposed myself to be shot, with no other
object in view than describing a battle in a newspaper. I suppose tastes
differ. Are you ill? Does your wound still plague you?"
"Not in the least."
"Are you out of spirits?"
Horace Holmcroft dropped his fork, rested his elbows on the table, and
answered: "Awfully."
Even Lady Janet's large toleration had its limits. It embraced every
human offense except a breach of good manners. She snatched up the
nearest weapon of correction at hand--a tablespoon--and rapped her young
friend smartly with it on the arm that was nearest to her.
"My table is not the club table," said the old lady. "Hold up your head.
Don't look at your fork--look at me. I allow nobody to be out of spirits
in My house. I consider it to be a reflection on Me. If our quiet life
here doesn't suit you, say so plainly, and find something else to do.
There is employment to be had, I suppose--if you choose to apply for it?
You needn't smile. I don't want to see your teeth--I want an answer."