Absorbing as the manipulation of chenille and beads might be,
however, her work did not prevent her keeping a tolerably sharp watch upon
those two figures by the open piano: Clarissa with one hand wandering idly
over the keys, playing some random passage, _pianissimo_, now and then;
George Fairfax standing by the angle of the piano, bending down to talk to
her with an extreme earnestness.
He had his opportunity, and he knew how to improve it. He was talking of
her brother. That subject made a link between them that nothing else could
have made. She forgot her distrust of George Fairfax when he spoke with
friendly interest of Austin.
"Is the wife _very_ vulgar?" Clarissa asked, when they had been talking
some time.
"Not so especially vulgar. That sort of thing would be naturally toned down
by her association with your brother. But she has an unmistakable air of
Bohemianism; looks like a third-rate actress, or dancer, in short; or
perhaps an artist's model. I should not wonder if that were her position,
by the way, when your brother fell in love with her. She is handsome still,
though a little faded and worn by her troubles, poor soul and seems fond of
him."
"I am glad of that. How I should like to see him, and the poor wife, and
the children--my brother's children! I have never had any children fond of
me."
She thought of Austin in his natural position, as the heir of Arden Court,
with his children playing in the old rooms--not as they were now, in
the restored splendour of the Middle Ages, but as they had been in her
childhood, sombre and faded, with here and there a remnant of former
grandeur.
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