Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. She held her hand to the place where he had slapped her. They’ll know. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. And she felt that if she went home it was imperative to pay. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. ’ ‘It could hardly be less so,’ said Mrs Sindlesham tartly. ’ ‘Is it, now? Well you won’t, then, for he won’t hear nothing, missie.
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