“I’ve done some work at last,” said Sir Richmond, astride on the hearthrug.
“I’m glad,” said Lady Hardy, without gladness. “I waited for three hours.”
Lady Hardy was a frail little blue-eyed woman with uneven shoulders and a delicate sweet profile. Hers was that type of face that under even the most pleasant and luxurious circumstances still looks bravely and patiently enduring. Her refinement threw a tinge of coarseness over his eager consumption of his excellent clear soup.
“What’s this fish, Bradley?” he asked.
“Turbot, Sir Richmond.”
“Don’t you have any?” he asked his wife.
“I’ve had a little fish,” said Lady Hardy.
When Bradley was out of the room, Sir Richmond remarked: “I saw that nerves man, Dr. Martineau, to-day. He wants me to take a holiday.”
The quiet patience of the lady’s manner intensified. She said nothing. A flash of resentment lit Sir Richmond’s eyes. When he spoke again, he seemed to answer unspoken accusations. “Dr. Martineau’s idea is that he should come with me.”
The lady adjusted herself to a new point of view.
“But won’t that be reminding you of your illness and worries?”
“He seems a good sort of fellow.... I’m inclined to like him. He’ll be as good company as
