And off she swept, pausing, however, on the landing to open the door again and put in an eager face.
"Oh! and, by the way, the young man has a mother--Frank reminded me. His womenkind don't seem to be his strong point--but as she doesn't earn _even_ four-and-sixpence a week--very sadly the contrary--I won't tell you any more now, or you'll forget. Next time!"
When Marcella Maxwell was at last left alone, she began to pace slowly up and down the large bare room, as it was very much her wont to do.
She was thinking of George Tressady, and of the personality his talk had seemed to reveal.
"His heart is all in _power_--in what he takes for magnificence." she said to herself. "He talks as if he had no humanity, and did not care a rap for anybody. But it is a pose--I _think_ it is a pose. He is interesting--he will develop. One would like--to show him things."
After another pensive turn or two she stopped beside a photograph that stood upon her writing-table. It was a photograph of her husband--a tall, smoothfaced man, with pleasant eyes, features of no particular emphasis, and the free carriage of the country-bred Englishman. As she looked at it her face relaxed unconsciously, inevitably; under the stimulus of some habitual and secret joy. It was for his sake, for his sake only that she was still thinking of George Tressady, still pondering the young man's character and remarks.
So much at least was true--no other member of Fontenoy's party had as yet given her even the chance of arguing with him. Once or twice in society she had tried to approach Fontenoy himself, to get somehow into touch with him. But she had made no way. Lord Fontenoy had simply turned his square-jawed face and red-rimmed eyes upon her with a stupid irresponsive air, which Marcella knew perfectly well to be a mask, while it protected him none the less effectively for that against both her eloquence and her charm. The other members of the party were young aristocrats, either of the ultra-exclusive or of the sporting type. She had made her attempts here and there among them, but with no more success. And once or twice, when she had pushed her attack to close quarters, she had been suddenly conscious of an underlying insolence in her opponent--a quick glance of bold or sensual eyes which seemed to relegate the mere woman to her place.