They are 'out of it.' But she likes the estate." As he
watched Mount Dunstan he felt sure he had got it at last--the right
thing. "If you were a duke with fifty thousand a year," with a
distinctly nasty, amicably humorous, faint laugh, "she would--by the
Lord, I believe, she would take it over--and you with it."
Mount Dunstan got up. In his rough walking tweeds he looked
over-big--and heavy--and perilous. For two seconds Nigel Anstruthers
would not have been surprised if he had without warning slapped his
face, or knocked him over, or whirled him out of his chair and kicked
him. He would not have liked it, but--for two seconds--it would have
been no surprise. In fact, he instinctively braced his not too
firm muscles. But nothing of the sort occurred. During the two
seconds--perhaps three--Mount Dunstan stood still and looked down at
him. The brief space at an end, he walked over to the hearth and stood
with his back to the big fireplace.
"You don't like her," he said, and his manner was that of a man dealing
with a matter of fact. "Why do you talk about her?"
He had got away again--quite away.
An ugly flush shot over Anstruthers' face. There was one more thing
to say--whether it was idiotic to say it or not.
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