and superficially kind. Inside herself she was a past-mistress in holding her own, and holding other people a little lower. She was not at all a snob: far too sure of herself. She was perfect at the social sport of coolly holding her own, and making other people defer to her.
She was kind to Connie, and tried to worm into her woman’s soul with the sharp gimlet of her wellborn observations.
“You’re quite wonderful, in my opinion,” she said to Connie. “You’ve done wonders for Clifford. I never saw any budding genius myself, and there he is all the rage.”—Aunt Eva was quite complacently proud of Clifford’s success. Another feather in the family cap! She didn’t care a straw about his books, but why should she?
“Oh, I don’t think it’s my doing,” said Connie.
“It must be! Can’t be anybody else’s. And it seems to me you don’t get enough out of it.”
“How?”
“Look at the way you are shut up here. I said to Clifford: If that child rebels one day you’ll have yourself to thank!”
“But Clifford never denies me anything,” said Connie.
“Look here, my dear child,”—and Lady Bennerley laid her thin hand on Connie’s arm. “A woman has to live her life, or live to repent not having lived it. Believe me!” And she took another sip of brandy, which maybe was her form of repentance.
“But I do live my life, don’t I?”
“Not in my idea! Clifford should bring you to London, and let you go about. His sort of friends are all right for him, but what are they for you?