“Of course,” she ended, “Augusta Welland and Mary Mingott both felt that, especially in view of Newland’s engagement, you and Henry ought to know .”
“Ah—” said Mr. van der Luyden, drawing a deep breath.
There was a silence during which the tick of the monumental ormolu clock on the white marble mantelpiece grew as loud as the boom of a minute-gun. Archer contemplated with awe the two slender faded figures, seated side by side in a kind of viceregal rigidity, mouthpieces of some remote ancestral authority which fate compelled them to wield, when they would so much rather have lived in simplicity and seclusion, digging invisible weeds out of the perfect lawns of Skuytercliff, and playing Patience together in the evenings.
Mr. van der Luyden was the first to speak.
“You really think this is due to some—some intentional interference of Lawrence Lefferts’s?” he enquired, turning to Archer.
“I’m certain of it, sir. Larry has been going it rather harder than usual lately—if cousin Louisa won’t mind my mentioning it—having rather a stiff affair with the postmaster’s wife in their village, or someone of that sort; and whenever poor Gertrude Lefferts begins to suspect anything, and he’s afraid of trouble, he gets up a fuss of this kind, to show how awfully moral he is, and talks at the top of his voice about the impertinence of inviting his wife to meet people he doesn’t wish her to know. He’s simply using Madame Olenska as a lightning-rod; I’ve seen him try the same thing often before.”
“The Leffertses !—” said Mrs. van der Luyden.
“The Leffertses !—” echoed Mrs. Archer. “What would uncle Egmont have said of Lawrence Lefferts’s pronouncing on anybody’s social position? It shows what Society has come to.”