"He can tell him what he thinks of him and threaten to cut off supplies."
"Much he'll care for that!" The cynicism of Blanche revolted Aunt Charlotte.
That lady, whose forte, after all, was plain common-*sense, knew that Blanche was right. But in spite of that knowledge, the resolute energy which made her so much disliked impelled her to go at once to lay the matter before the head of the house.
Lady Wargrave found her brother in the smaller library, long dedicated by custom to his sole use. It was one of the less pretentious and therefore least uncomfortable rooms in a house altogether too large to be decently habitable.
For many years the Duke had been at the mercy of a painful malady which had taken all the pleasure out of his life. He was nearly seventy now, a man strikingly handsome in spite of a sufferer's mouth and eyes weary with pain and cynicism. When his sister entered the room she found him deployed on an invalid chair, the Quarterly Review on a book-rest in front of him, and a wineglass containing medicine at his elbow. And to Lady Wargrave's clear annoyance, a tall, gray-haired, rather austere-looking, but decidedly handsome woman, stood by the Adam chimney-piece, a bottle in one hand, a teaspoon in the other.
"Perhaps you will be kind enough to leave us, Mrs. Sanderson," said Lady Wargrave, in a tone which sounded needlessly elaborate.
Harriet Sanderson, without so much as a temporary relaxation of muscle of her strong face, withdrew at
