” “I think,” Lady Lescelles said, putting down her teacup, “that I must send Nigel to plead his own cause. “Lucy, you. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. ‘It needs not that you tell me. “Glad to see you in London. ‘Where is Gérard?’ ‘Out of town,’ Hilary said briefly. I’m sorry. He grabbed her hair viciously and whispered loudly into her tear-streaked face. ” She smiled grimly at the recollection of that lunch—tea and roll at a cheap café. My wife—killed me. ’ ‘Of course I am, imbecile,’ she snapped, unconsciously echoing her greatniece. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. The lady murmured briefly to her husband, and then tucked her hand into Alderley’s arm. But, after all, it will be different.
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