‘I heard from Mr. Geoffrey that Mrs. Arbuthnot was staying at Miller’s Hotel.’
But Marjorie’s voice faltered. Her soul clothed itself in sackcloth and ashes as she thought of her own error, of the generous, delicate motives which had prompted her—Pharisee that she was!—to call on Dinah.
‘Whatever Geff does comes to good. He cannot take a mile-long walk without some man or woman being the better for it. Geff has a kind of genius for bringing about the welfare of other people.’
At the mention of Geoffrey every artificial trace left Gaston’s manner. The best of the man showed always, no matter how trifling the occasion, in the honest regard he bore his cousin.
‘Now, look, Miss Bartrand, at the way Geff is spending his time in this island!’
Where Marjorie had suspected him of easy-going callousness, of philandering in the train of idle, fine ladies, of singing French songs, of putting himself on the social and intellectual plane of a Major Tredennis.
‘Six hours a week must, I own, be grudged to him—the hours he spends at Tintajeux Manoir.’
‘Spare yourself the trouble of being polite, Mr. Arbuthnot. If you knew how I detest politeness!’
‘But remember all his other hours.’ The art of thought-reading was certainly to be reckoned among Gaston’s accomplishments. Within ten minutes of his introduction to this little classico-mathematical girl, behold him discoursing with cunning naturalness on the subject likeliest to interest her in the world—Geff’s virtues! ‘Remember how his days, often his nights, are really passed.’
‘Mr. Geoffrey Arbuthnot reads, does he not?’