But it might have been the salary she was thinking of when she added
that it was of course an awfully good thing for Gwenda.
"And who," said Rowcliffe, "is Lady Frances Gilbey?"
"She's a cousin of my stepmother's."
He considered it.
"And Mrs.--er--Cartaret lives in London, doesn't she?"
"Oh, yes."
Mary's tone implied that you couldn't expect that brilliant lady to
live anywhere else.
There was a moment in which Rowcliffe again evoked the image of the
third Mrs. Cartaret who was "the very one." If anything could have
depressed him more, that did.
But he pulled himself together. There were things he had to know.
"And does your sister like living in London?"
Mary smiled. "I imagine she does very much indeed."
"Somehow," said Rowcliffe, "I can't see her there. I thought she liked
the country."
"Oh, you never can tell whether Gwenda really likes anything. She may
have liked it. She may have liked it awfully. But she couldn't go on
liking it forever."
And to Rowcliffe it was as if Mary had said that wasn't Gwenda's way.
"There's no doubt she's done the best thing. For herself, I mean."
Rowcliffe assented. "Perhaps she has."
And Mary, as if doubt had only just occurred to her, made a sudden
little tremulous appeal.
"You don't really think Garth was the place for her?"
"I don't really think anything about it," Rowcliffe said.
Mary was pensive. Her brooding look said that she laid a secret fear
to rest.
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