She seemed to him to be looking at a photograph which he noticed now
for the first time on the mantelpiece, the picture of a stout elderly man
with large clean-shaven face and an expression of tolerant shrewdness.
Marchmont moved close to her shoulder and looked also. Perceiving him,
she half turned her head towards him. "That's my husband's right-hand man
at Henstead," she said. "They understand each other perfectly."
"He looks a sharp fellow."
"So he may be able to understand Alexander? Thank you. I like to have his
picture here." Suddenly she turned round full on him, stretching out her
hand. "I wish you'd go now," she said. "Have you turned stupid, or don't
you see that you must leave me alone, or--or I shall say all sorts of
things I mustn't? That man on the mantelpiece there typifies it all.
Bless his dear old fat face! I like him so much--and he's such a humbug,
and I don't think he knows that he's in the least a humbug. Is sincerity
just stupidity?" Her mirth broke out. "Alexander hates my having him
there," she whispered; then she drew away, crying, "Go, go.
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