She was
a slender, short old woman, with an ivory-coloured face, a thin nose,
and keen eyes half-veiled by delicate wrinkled lids. Very still, in
her grey dress, and with grey hair, she gave the impression of a little
figure carved out of fine, worn steel. Her firm, spidery hand held a
letter written in free somewhat sprawling style:
MONKLAND COURT,
"DEVON.
"MY DEAR, MOTHER,
"Geoffrey is motoring up to-morrow. He'll look in on you on the way if
he can. This new war scare has taken him up. I shan't be in Town myself
till Miltoun's election is over. The fact is, I daren't leave him down
here alone. He sees his 'Anonyma' every day. That Mr. Courtier, who
wrote the book against War--rather cool for a man who's been a soldier
of fortune, don't you think?--is staying at the inn, working for the
Radical. He knows her, too--and, one can only hope, for Miltoun's sake,
too well--an attractive person, with red moustaches, rather nice and
mad. Bertie has just come down; I must get him to have a talk with
Miltoun, and see if he cant find out how the land lies. One can
trust Bertie--he's really very astute. I must say, that she's quite a
sweet-looking woman; but absolutely nothing's known of her here except
that she divorced her husband. How does one find out about people?
Miltoun's being so extraordinarily strait-laced makes it all the more
awkward.
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