The door opened softly. His wife came in.
Lady Laura had lost her old careless good humour. Her fair complexion had changed for the worse; there were lines in her white forehead, and all her movements had grown nervous and irritable. But her expression as she stood by her husband was one of anxious though rather childish affection.
“How are you, Arthur? Did you get a nap?”
“A beauty!” said her husband, smiling at her, and taking her hand. “I dreamt about Raby, and the first time I saw you there in the old Duke’s day. What a pretty thing you were, Laura!—like a monthly rose, all pink.”
He patted her hand; Lady Laura shrugged her shoulders rather pettishly.
“It’s no good thinking about that now.... You’re not really going to have a shooting-party, Arthur? I do wish you wouldn’t!”
“But of course I am!” said her husband, raising himself with alacrity. “The grouse must be shot, and the estate is not sold yet! I’ve asked young Meyrick, and Lord Charles, and Robert Vere. You can ask the Charlevilles, dear, and if my lady doesn’t come I shan’t break my heart. Then there are five or six of the neighbours of course. And no whining and whimpering! The last shoot at Flood shall be a good one! The keeper tells me the birds are splendid!”
“You forget what Duggy and I shall be feeling all the time, Arthur. It’s very hard on us.”
“No—nonsense!” The voice was good-humouredly impatient. “Take it calmly, dear. What do places matter? Come to the Andes with me. Duggy must work for his fellowship; Nelly can stay with some of our relations; and we can send the children to school. Or what do you say to a winter in California? Let’s have a second honeymoon—see something of the world before we die. This English country gentleman business ties one terribly. Life in one’s own house is so jolly one doesn’t want anything else. But now, if we’re going to be uprooted, let’s enjoy it!”
“Enjoy it!” repeated his wife bitterly. “How can you say such things, Arthur?”
She walked to the window, and stood looking out at the garden with its grandiose backing of hill and climbing wood, and the strong broken masses of the cedar trees—the oldest it was said in England—which flanked it on either side. Lady Laura was, in truth, only just beginning to realise their misfortunes. It had seemed to her impossible that such wealth as theirs should positively give out; that there should be nothing left but her miserable two thousand a year; that something should not turn up to save them from this preposterous necessity of leaving Flood. When Douglas came home, she had thrown herself on her clever son, confident that he would find a way out, and his sombre verdict on the hopelessness of the situation had filled her with terror. How could they live with nothing but the London house to call their own? How could they? Why couldn’t they sell off the land, and keep the house and the park? Then they would still be the Fallodens of Flood. It was stupid—simply stupid—to be giving up everything like this.