15/36 Watson, on whom Lord Findon's whole personality seemed to have an effect more irritating than agreeable, fidgeted with his brushes. He struck in presently with the dry remark that artists were not the only persons who made imprudent marriages. His youngest son, the year before, had married the nurse who had pulled him through typhoid--and was still in exile, and unforgiven. He stood behind the other two while Lord Findon was talking--frowning sometimes and restless--a movement now and then in lips and body, as though he were about to speak--yet not speaking. It was one of those moments when a man feels a band about his tongue, woven by shyness or false shame, or social timidity. |