Part 41 (1/2)

”Politics,” said Lydia.

Jeffrey broke out into a laugh.

”Oh, come off!” said he. ”Politics. Not much you don't.”

Lydia laughed, too, in a sudden relief and pleasure. She didn't like her lie, it seemed.

”No,” said she, ”we don't. But I tell Anne if people ask questions it's at their own risk. They must take what they get.”

”Anne wouldn't tell a lie,” said Jeffrey.

She flared up at him.

”I wouldn't either. I never do. You took me by surprise.”

”Does Madame Beattie talk to you about her life abroad?”

He ventured this. But she was gazing at him in the clearest candour.

”Oh, no.” ”About what, Lydia? Tell me. It bothers me.”

”Did Miss Amabel bother you?” The charming face was fiery.

”I don't need Amabel to tell me you're taking long drives with Madame Beattie. She's a battered old party, Lydia. She's seen lots of things you don't want even to hear about.”

She was gazing at him now in quite a dignified surprise.

”If you mean things that are not nice,” she said, ”I shouldn't listen to them. But she wouldn't want me to. Madame Beattie is--” She saw no adequate way to put it.

But Jeffrey understood her. He, too, believed Madame Beattie had a decency of her own.

”Never mind,” said he. ”Only I want to keep you as you are. So would father. And Anne.”

Lydia sat straight in her chair, her cheeks scarlet from excitement, her eyes speaking with the full power of their limpid beauty. What if she were to tell him how they talked of Esther and her cruelty, and of him and his misfortunes, and of the need of his at once setting out to reconstruct his life? But it would not do. This youth here astride the chair didn't seem like the Jeff who was woven into all she could imagine of tragedy and pain. He looked like the Jeff she had heard the colonel tell about, who had been reckless and impulsive and splendid, and had been believed in always and then had grown up into a man who made and lost money and was punished for it. He was speaking now in his new coaxing voice.

”There's one thing you could tell me. That wouldn't do any harm.”

”What?” asked Lydia.

”Your old crony must have mentioned the night we ran away with Weedon Moore's automobile.”

”Oh, yes,” said Lydia. Her eyes were eloquent now. ”She told me.”

”Did she tell you what she said to Weedon's crowd, to turn them round like a flock of sheep and bring them over to us?”

”Oh, yes, she told me.”

”What was it?”

But Lydia again looked obstinate, though she ventured a little plea of her own.

”Jeff, you must go into politics.”