GEORGETTE HEYER
his fingers before answering her. ‘There’s nothing to discuss. I’ve had it out with Cliff. It’s all settled.’ ‘You shan’t do it!’ she cried. ‘I won’t let you, I won’t! Clay at least shan’t be tied to this hateful place as I am! It isn’t fair! You’re only doing it to hurt me! You’re cruel, Adam, cruel!’ ‘That’s a good one!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, you bloodless little idiot, a lad with an ounce of spirit in him would thank me for it! I’m giving him a damned good roof over his head, and the best life a man could ask! He can hunt, shoot, fish—’ ‘He doesn’t care about that kind of thing!’ she said, betrayed into another of her disastrous admissions. His anger, which had so far been smouldering, burst into flame. ‘God damn the pair of you!’ he thundered. ‘He doesn’t care for that sort of thing! He doesn’t care for that sort of thing! And you sit there boasting of it! He’d rather live in town! Then let him do it! Let him show me what he’s made of! Let him set up for himself in London, and astonish us all with this precious writing of his! Let him send me to the devil, and cut loose! I’m agreeable!’ He beat with one hand upon the patchwork quilt, upsetting the dish of fruit. An orange rolled off the bed, and a little way across the floor, and lay, a splash of crude colour, in the middle of the carpet. He looked savagely at Faith, out of narrowed, mocking eyes. ‘Can you see him doing it, this fine son of yours? Can you, whey-face?’ ‘How can he get away, when you know very well he has no money? Besides, he isn’t of age. He—’ 52
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