"Perhaps." He was speaking now in a ruminative way—as though he were comparing in his mind Jenny's account of Powers, my opinion of Powers, and his own impression of the man. He seemed to me to give more thought to Powers than I should have expected from him; a rude and contemptuous dismissal would have been Powers's more probable fate at his hands.
"Are you going to clear out for the Institute?" I asked.
"I shall be out of this house in less than a year, anyhow. That's settled."
"Oh, then your negotiations have been very satisfactory! You had a right to stay here two years."
"The present state of affairs can't drag on for two years," he said, looking at me steadily. His ostensible reference might be to his uncomfortable relations toward his neighbors; I was sure that he meant more than that—and did not mind letting me see it. A restlessness betrayed itself in his movements; he seemed to be on the edge of an outbreak and to hold himself back with a struggle. His victory was very imperfect: he could not keep off the subject which perturbed him; he could only contrive to treat it with a show of lightness and contempt. The subject had been in my thoughts already.
"Seeing much of our friend Fillingford just now at the Priory?"
"He comes a certain amount. I don't see much of him."
"And that sets fools gossiping, I suppose?"
"Need you ask me, Octon? I fancy you've heard something for yourself."
He rubbed his big hands together, giving a laugh which sounded rather uneasy under its cloak of amusement.