But the natural man is not easily subdued, nor does he yield his place readily. In the end Grantley was not apt at explanations or apologies. The evening fell fair and still, a fine October night, and he joined Sibylla in the garden. Christine remained inside—from tact perhaps, though she was very likely chilly too. Grantley smoked in silence, while Sibylla looked down on the little village below.
"This thing has shaken me up dreadfully," he said at last. "The Courtlands, I mean."
"Yes, I know." She turned and faced him. "And isn't there something else that concerns you and me?"
"I know of nothing. And you can hardly say the Courtlands concern us exactly."
"They do; and there is something else, Grantley. I know what Janet Selford wrote."
"That's nothing at all to me."
"But it is something to me. You know it is."
"I won't talk of that. It's nothing." He put his hand out suddenly to her. "Let's be friends, Sibylla."
She did not take his hand, but she looked at him with a friendly gaze.
"We really ought to try to manage that, oughtn't we? For Frank's sake, if for nothing else. Or do you think I've no right to talk about Frank?"