r
voice. She was indeed a figure suggestive of open air and generous
living, endowed with abundant energy, and not devoid of humour. It was
she who answered Agatha's remark.
"Of course, my dear, the very best thing possible."
Lord Harbinger chimed in:
"By the way, Brabrook's going to speak on it. Did you ever hear him,
Lady Agatha? 'Mr. Speaker, Sir, I rise--and with me rises the democratic
principle----'"
But Agatha only smiled, for she was thinking:
"If I let Ann go as far as the gate, she'll only make it a
stepping-stone to something else to-morrow." Taking no interest in
public affairs, her inherited craving for command had resorted for
expression to a meticulous ordering of household matters. It was
indeed a cult with her, a passion--as though she felt herself a sort of
figurehead to national domesticity; the leader of a patriotic movement.
Lord Valleys, having finished what seemed necessary, arose.
"Any message to your mother, Gertrude?"
"No, I wrote last night."
"Tell Miltoun to keep--an eye on that Mr. Courtier. I heard him speak
one day--he's rather good."
Lady Valleys, who had not yet sat down, accompanied her husband to the
door.
"By the way, I've told Mother about this woman, Geoff."
"Was it necessary?"
"Well, I think so; I'm uneasy--after all, Mother has some influence with
Miltoun."
Lord Valleys shrugged his shoulders, and slightly squeezing his wife's
arm, went out.
Though himself vaguely uneasy on that very subject, he was a man who did
not go to meet disturbance. He had the nerves which seem to be no nerves
at all--especially found in those of his class who have much to do
with horses. He temperamentally regarded the evil of the day as quite
sufficient to it. Moreover, his eldest son was a riddle that he had long
given up, so far as women were concerned.
Emerging into the outer hall, he lingered a moment, remembering that he
had not seen his younger and favourite daughter.
"Lady Barbara down yet?" Hearing that she was not, he slipped into the
motor coat held for him by Simmons, and stepped out under the white
portico, decorated by the Caradoc hawks in stone.
The voice of little Ann reached him, clear and high above the smothered
whirring of the car.
"Come on, Grandpapa!"
Lord Valleys grimaced beneath his crisp moustache--the word grandpapa
always fell queerly on the ears of one who was but fifty-six, and by no
means felt it--and jerking his gloved hand tow
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