place in order to get some sort of idea of the value of it—and that was my downfall! I fell in love with it and now nothing in the world would persuade me to sell it. One of these days I shall retire here,” he added with considerable satisfaction. “And now, I expect you would like to see your room, but if you could spare me a moment or two first, I’d be obliged if you’d tell me what you think of my sister’s condition.”
He motioned her to a chair and Lucy sat down, her forehead puckered.
“It’s rather difficult for me to say. You see, I haven’t been with her for very long so that I can’t really make useful comparisons. And then she’s so very brave—but I think, judging by the way she has kept down to work, that it can’t be as bad as it sometimes is. And then, a few weeks back, she and Mr. Vaughan entertained some people for the weekend, and that didn’t seem to tire her too much. Of course, she rested quite a lot—”
Mr. Keane chuckled.
“One of those famous weekends ending up with a show and everybody doing a turn?” he asked. “I got let in for one of those once, and when my turn came, all I could think of was some not very respectable limericks! However, they went down very well! What did you do?”
“I—sang,” Lucy admitted reluctantly, and then, in a burst of confidence: “It was rather dreadful, because I’ve never done such a thing before in front of people —and one of them was Miss Singleton!”
“Oh—yes, the singer. One of Owen’s proteges—and a very successful one, I believe, though possessed by rather a troublesome sense of gratitude.”
Lucy could not hide her surprise.
“But if Mr. Vaughan has done so much for her, isn’t it natural—?” she suggested.
“No doubt,” Mr. Keane agreed drily. “But the peculiar thing about gratitude is that it’s something of a boomerang. If you have earned it, in time it can happen that you, and not the recipient of your help, become under an obligation—ah, here is Owen. Well, my boy, how is Louise now?”
“Not too bad, all things considered,” Owen told him. “Bertha has made her a cup of tea—the old dear brought over all the necessary tackle in a small case she insisted on clinging to all the way with the result that Customs were convinced it must hold something very valuable and insisted on going through it with a fine tooth comb! I only hope they couldn’t understand all the things she called them. Interfering young busybodies was the least of them!”
Mr. Keane laughed. Then Lucy suggested going to her room and left the two men alone. Mr. Keane looked at his nephew speculatively.
“You look almost as fagged as Louise does,” he remarked.
Owen shrugged his shoulders.
“The last year has been pretty busy,” he admitted noncommittally.
“H’m. And will I kindly mind my own business?” Mr. Keane suggested. “All right, I can take a hint.”
“Good,” Owen said laconically.
“All the same, there’s one tip I’m going to give you,” Mr. Keane announced.
“Well?”
“Be content to make haste slowly,” Mr. Keane told him. “In fact, at present, simply marking time would be even better.”
The eyes of the two men met and there was a certain grudging admiration in Owen’s.
“You see too damn much,” he complained disrespectfully.
Mr. Keane chuckled pleasurably. He was extremely fond of his nephew, but it would be against nature if, as the older generation, he did not get considerable satisfaction out of scoring a point off the younger.
* * *
Lucy’s room was large and airy and very pleasant. She liked the sense of space which the simple furnishings gave it and saw with appreciation that flowers had been put in the room just as they always were at Spindles, The maid who had shown her to her room had asked if she would like help with her unpacking, and Lucy, in her rather schoolgirl French, had said that she could manage alone. The girl had smiled, but she looked rather disappointed.
He motioned her to a chair and Lucy sat down, her forehead puckered.
“It’s rather difficult for me to say. You see, I haven’t been with her for very long so that I can’t really make useful comparisons. And then she’s so very brave—but I think, judging by the way she has kept down to work, that it can’t be as bad as it sometimes is. And then, a few weeks back, she and Mr. Vaughan entertained some people for the weekend, and that didn’t seem to tire her too much. Of course, she rested quite a lot—”
Mr. Keane chuckled.
“One of those famous weekends ending up with a show and everybody doing a turn?” he asked. “I got let in for one of those once, and when my turn came, all I could think of was some not very respectable limericks! However, they went down very well! What did you do?”
“I—sang,” Lucy admitted reluctantly, and then, in a burst of confidence: “It was rather dreadful, because I’ve never done such a thing before in front of people —and one of them was Miss Singleton!”
“Oh—yes, the singer. One of Owen’s proteges—and a very successful one, I believe, though possessed by rather a troublesome sense of gratitude.”
Lucy could not hide her surprise.
“But if Mr. Vaughan has done so much for her, isn’t it natural—?” she suggested.
“No doubt,” Mr. Keane agreed drily. “But the peculiar thing about gratitude is that it’s something of a boomerang. If you have earned it, in time it can happen that you, and not the recipient of your help, become under an obligation—ah, here is Owen. Well, my boy, how is Louise now?”
“Not too bad, all things considered,” Owen told him. “Bertha has made her a cup of tea—the old dear brought over all the necessary tackle in a small case she insisted on clinging to all the way with the result that Customs were convinced it must hold something very valuable and insisted on going through it with a fine tooth comb! I only hope they couldn’t understand all the things she called them. Interfering young busybodies was the least of them!”
Mr. Keane laughed. Then Lucy suggested going to her room and left the two men alone. Mr. Keane looked at his nephew speculatively.
“You look almost as fagged as Louise does,” he remarked.
Owen shrugged his shoulders.
“The last year has been pretty busy,” he admitted noncommittally.
“H’m. And will I kindly mind my own business?” Mr. Keane suggested. “All right, I can take a hint.”
“Good,” Owen said laconically.
“All the same, there’s one tip I’m going to give you,” Mr. Keane announced.
“Well?”
“Be content to make haste slowly,” Mr. Keane told him. “In fact, at present, simply marking time would be even better.”
The eyes of the two men met and there was a certain grudging admiration in Owen’s.
“You see too damn much,” he complained disrespectfully.
Mr. Keane chuckled pleasurably. He was extremely fond of his nephew, but it would be against nature if, as the older generation, he did not get considerable satisfaction out of scoring a point off the younger.
* * *
Lucy’s room was large and airy and very pleasant. She liked the sense of space which the simple furnishings gave it and saw with appreciation that flowers had been put in the room just as they always were at Spindles, The maid who had shown her to her room had asked if she would like help with her unpacking, and Lucy, in her rather schoolgirl French, had said that she could manage alone. The girl had smiled, but she looked rather disappointed.
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