Indiscretion by Jude Morgan Page B

anxious about it all. What is the substance of this quarrel, do you know? Of course I realize you must be discreet.’
    ‘I suspect it is one of those quarrels that will always be breaking out, from the pride of either party. But you are right — I must be discreet.’
    ‘Else they will be making you the subject of a quarrel, eh? Never fear me, I shall say no more. So, do you go to the Thursday assemblies, Miss Fortune? And do you find them tolerably well attended?’
    ‘I think those are polite form questions,’ she said, observing his faint smile.
    ‘Just so. I thought it time we had a couple. Like bread with your ragout.’
    ‘Then yes and yes are your answers. It might be easier if one could just hold up a little flag for those social interchanges, don’t you think? Up for “Yes, quite,” half-cock for “Shocking weather”, and down for “I am bored to death”. Why do you say that you and your sister are on a level?’
    ‘I mean in mental development — women being so forward of us in that regard that we men need twelve or thirteen years’ head start to put us on an equality.’
    ‘That is very flattering, and surely meant to be.’
    ‘Certainly. But surely you would not have it otherwise?’
    ‘You mean, being a woman I must like to hear complimentary things said about women? Perhaps. But then each of us always makes an exception for ourselves in such generalizations. Hence that other class of men, who seek to win the favour of the female sex by roundly abusing them. Many a woman sees that as a challenge: “I’ll convert him,” thinks she. And if she can get the man to esteem her, whilst despising all her sisterhood, then all the better. Where’s the merit in fascinating a man who admires all women anyway?’
    ‘Well, I am of the admiring class: I freely admit it — and my side has at least the virtue of honesty.’
    ‘Ah, but isn’t a virtue something exercised for its own sake? Whereas flattery has always an aim!
    ‘Not always. There are some men, I believe, who cannot help themselves, and will keep it up with no notion of anything coming of it.’
    And are you of that sort? Caroline wondered, studying askance his gracefully strolling figure, his clear-cut profile with the grey eye sparked by humour. There were elegant gentlemen aplenty walking that promenade, but beside Mr Leabrook they showed all sorts of awkwardness, asymmetry, affection. Here was such ease and naturalness, combined with polish and civility, that she had been at first a little knocked back by him. Now she suspected he was an accomplished flirt; though even so she remained, if not knocked back, at least half horizontal.
    ‘You are wanted, I think,’ he said, gently pressing her arm and nodding ahead. Mrs Catling, obviously feeling she had indulged her relatives enough, was turning herself about, and demanding: ‘Where is my Caroline? I am quite lost, you know, without my Caroline — quite lost.’ Caroline, who had never even heard her employer use her first name, let alone decorate it with that fond possessive, tried to keep the surprise from her face. But Mr Leabrook missed nothing: he repeated the pressure, and said quietly, ‘My feeling is that if someone tries to use you as a tool, you shouldn’t mind it, because it is their choice and folly, not yours.’
    ‘My dear,’ Mrs Catling cried, as Caroline rejoined her, ‘we must go home soon, and this mantle is all in a twist from the wind, and I must have your delicate fingers. No one can set it right just as you do — here is Matthew making it ten times worse with his fumbling.’
    ‘I can’t see much amiss with it, ma’am,’ Caroline said, primping, ‘and Mr Downey has made a much better job than I would of a man’s riding-coat.’
    ‘Well, upon my word, I tried my best,’ Matthew Downey said, fuming and frowning as if she had said something against him instead of for him: whilst Maria only yawned.
    I shall not try any more, Caroline thought, if they