“We shall see,” she said.  Something struggled with the autocratic criticism in her eyes.  No more than the rest of the world could she help indulging Barbara.  As one who believed in the divinity of her order, she liked this splendid child.  She even admired—­though admiration was not what she excelled in—­that warm joy in life, as of some great nymph, parting the waves with bare limbs, tossing from her the foam of breakers.  She felt that in this granddaughter, rather than in the good Agatha, the patrician spirit was housed.  There were points to Agatha, earnestness and high principle; but something morally narrow and over-Anglican slightly offended the practical, this-worldly temper of Lady Casterley.  It was a weakness, and she disliked weakness.  Barbara would never be squeamish over moral questions or matters such as were not really, essential to aristocracy.  She might, indeed, err too much the other way from sheer high spirits.  As the impudent child had said:  “If people had no pasts, they would have no futures.”  And Lady Casterley could not bear people without futures.  She was ambitious; not with the low ambition of one who had risen from nothing, but with the high passion of one on the top, who meant to stay there.

“And where have you been meeting this—­er—­anonymous creature?” she asked.

Barbara came from the hearth, and bending down beside Lady Casterley’s chair, seemed to envelop her completely.

“I’m all right, Granny; she couldn’t corrupt me.”

Lady Casterley’s face peered out doubtfully from that warmth, wearing a look of disapproving pleasure.

“I know your wiles!” she said.  “Come, now!”

“I see her about.  She’s nice to look at.  We talk.”

Again with that hurried quietness Agatha said: 

“My dear Babs, I do think you ought to wait.”

“My dear Angel, why?  What is it to me if she’s had four husbands?”

Agatha bit her lips, and Lady Valleys murmured with a laugh: 

“You really are a terror, Babs.”

But the sound of Mrs. Winlow’s music had ceased—­the men had come in.  And the faces of the four women hardened, as if they had slipped on masks; for though this was almost or quite a family party, the Winlows being second cousins, still the subject was one which each of these four in their very different ways felt to be beyond general discussion.  Talk, now, began glancing from the war scare—­Winlow had it very specially that this would be over in a week—­to Brabrook’s speech, in progress at that very moment, of which Harbinger provided an imitation.  It sped to Winlow’s flight—­to Andrew Grant’s articles in the ’Parthenon’—­to the caricature of Harbinger in the ‘Cackler’, inscribed ’The New Tory.  Lord H-rb-ng-r brings Social Reform beneath the notice of his friends,’ which depicted him introducing a naked baby to a number of coroneted old ladies.  Thence to a dancer.  Thence to the Bill for Universal Assurance.  Then back to the war scare; to the last book of a great French writer; and once more to Winlow’s flight.  It was all straightforward and outspoken, each seeming to say exactly what came into the head.  For all that, there was a curious avoidance of the spiritual significances of these things; or was it perhaps that such significances were not seen?