‘No need to tell me the local tittle-tattle. On that head Cassandra Tighe has been a more than sufficient oracle. By the bye, witch,’ with the memory of over-boiled fish strong upon him the Seigneur turned his piercing old gaze towards his granddaughter, ‘Cassandra informs me that Mrs. Arbuthnot is an extraordinarily pretty woman; good, too, as she is pretty. Your tutor shows poor taste in dancing attendance on anything so vapidly commonplace as Doctor Thorne’s Indian wife.’
Marjorie Bartrand, who, three weeks ago, had never changed colour before mortal, was conscious, at this moment, of blushing furiously before the Reverend Andros. Still more did she quail under the eyes of Sylvestre, who stood, in his faded puce and silver, listening, with the unabashed frankness that characterises servants of his age and nation, to their talk. From her grandfather all she need fear was a little searching banter, directed towards herself. Let the dramatic instincts of Sylvestre be aroused, and he was capable of waylaying Geoffrey Arbuthnot—yes, and of inviting confidence respecting the most intimate family concerns at Geff’s next visit. It needs personal acquaintance with a Frenchman of Sylvestre’s type to realise how the passion for scandalettes, smouldering through long years of solitude and disuse, would be ready at the first handful of fuel supplied to break forth anew!
‘Doctor and Mrs. Thorne were at the rose-show. The proceeds of the refreshment stall go, this June, to some sort of charity, so Mrs. Thorne, of course, presided there. But Mrs. Thorne is one of the people I never can find two words to say to.’
‘Our solemn-eyed Cantab finds a great many more than two words, it would appear. Let me help you to a merry-thought, witch. You have nothing but bones on your plate.’
Marjorie picked her merry-thought, as she finished her dinner, in silence. Over dessert, however—Sylvestre’s inquisitive face fairly vanished from the scene—she plucked up courage and spoke:
‘We have been making nimble but ridiculous conjectures, sir. One could not well speak of this before Sylvestre. Miss Tighe made sure of the Arbuthnot family history, you know, and——’
‘Avoid expletives. I know nothing, until it is your pleasure to inform my ignorance.’
‘I mean Cassandra believed, from whispers she heard in Petersport, that Mrs. Arbuthnot was kept too much in the background. It would be a right and kindly thing, we thought, for me to call on her, and so—and so——’
‘Take your time, Marjorie; slur over nothing. We have a long evening before us.’