Читать книгу Sydney Lisle, the Heiress of St. Quentin онлайн

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She saw him looking at her, and forced a rather pathetic little smile. Mr. Fenton put down his paper, folded it, and leaned forward.

“You are not cold, I trust?”

“No, thank you, not at all.”

“Or tired?”

Sydney considered, and thought perhaps she was a little tired.

“We shall be at Dacreshaw in less than twenty minutes,” he informed her, looking at his watch. She thanked him, and then took a sudden resolution, “Mr. Fenton, may I ask you a question?”

“Pray do, my dear Miss Lisle.”

Mr. Fenton felt a little happier about her now, and his tone was fatherly.

“I don’t know anything about my cousin,” she said, looking up at him appealingly; “will he—will he be kind, do you think?”

Mr. Fenton rubbed his hands together in a considering kind of way. “I do not think that you will see a great deal of Lord St. Quentin,” he said. “Since his accident he has lived entirely in two rooms on the ground floor—no, I don’t think you will see him very often.”

“And Lady Frederica?” ventured Sydney. “You told father that Lord St. Quentin is thirty-four, so I suppose his aunt is very very old?”