He kept his face neutral and said something sensible about the campaign, and Lewes responded with the equanimity of a man who noticed considerably more than he mentioned.
At one point Lydia and Georgiana stopped at a flower seller’s cart near the park gate, their heads bent over a tray of late-season blooms. Fitzwilliam and Lewes walked a few paces ahead and then slowed, as if by mutual agreement, to a halt.
Lewes looked out at the park for a moment. Then he said, pleasantly, not looking at Fitzwilliam: “I hope you are proud of your wife, sir.”
Fitzwilliam said that he was.
“Good,” Lewes said. He paused. “I hope you will ensure she knows it.”
He said nothing further. He did not look at Fitzwilliam to see how the remark had landed. He clasped his hands behind his back and waited with perfect tranquillity for the ladies to finish their deliberations, as though he had said nothing more consequential than a remark about the weather.
Fitzwilliam stood beside him and thought about several things, and said none of them.
