They had not seen Barbara cry since she was
a tiny girl. And in face of her emotion any animus they might have shown
her for having thrown Miltoun into Mrs. Noel's arms, now melted away.
Lord Valleys, especially moved, went up to his daughter, and stood with
her in that dark corner, saying nothing, but gently stroking her hand.
Lady Valleys, who herself felt very much inclined to cry, went out of
sight into the embrasure of the window.
Barbara's sobbing was soon subdued.
"It's his face," she said: "And why? Why? It's so unnecessary!"
Lord Valleys, continually twisting his moustache, muttered:
"Exactly! He makes things for himself!"
"Yes," murmured Lady Valleys from the window, "he was always
uncomfortable, like that. I remember him as a baby. Bertie never was."
And then the silence was only broken by the little angry sounds of
Barbara blowing her nose.
"I shall go and see mother," said Lady Valleys, suddenly: "The boy's
whole life may be ruined if we can't stop this. Are you coming, child?"
But Barbara refused.
She went to her room, instead. This crisis in Miltoun's life had
strangely shaken her. It was as if Fate had suddenly revealed all that
any step out of the beaten path might lead to, had brought her sharply
up against herself. To wing out into the blue! See what it meant! If
Miltoun kept to his resolve, and gave up public life, he was lost! And
she herself! The fascination of Courtier's chivalrous manner, of a sort
of innate gallantry, suggesting the quest of everlasting danger--was it
not rather absurd? And--was she fascinated? Was it not simply that
she liked the feeling of fascinating him? Through the maze of these
thoughts, darted the memory of Harbinger's face close to her own, his
clenched hands, the swift revelation of his dangerous masculinity.
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