Mr. Ferrier, with a cigarette in
his mouth, stood beside her, reading the sheets of a letter which she
handed to him as she herself finished them. Every now and then she spoke
to him, and he replied. In the little scene, between the slender
white-haired woman and the middle-aged man, there was something so
intimate, so conjugal even, that Diana involuntarily turned away as
though to watch it were an impertinence.
"Rather touching, isn't it?" said the youth, smiling benevolently. "Of
course you know--there's a romance, or rather _was_--long ago. My mother
knew all about it. Since old Marsham's death, Lady Lucy's never done a
thing without Ferrier to advise her. Why she hasn't married him, that's
the puzzle.--But she's a curious woman, is Lady Lucy. Looks so soft,
but--" He pursed up his lips with an important air.
"Anyhow, she depends a lot on Ferrier. He's constantly here whenever he
can be spared from London and Parliament. He got Oliver into
Parliament--his first seat I mean--for Manchester. The Ferriers are very
big people up there, and old Ferrier's recommendation of him just put
him in straight--no trouble about it! Oh! and before that when he was at
Eton--and Oxford too--Ferrier looked after him like a father.
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