For a moment he stared at me, as if I were an utter stranger, then exclaimed:
“Hallo, Evie! I scarcely knew you! Glad to see you!” kissing me on the cheek. “It’s ages since you were here. How is that, eh?”
Impossible to tell him the bare naked truth, so I replied, “Don’t you remember, the doctors thought this place too relaxing for me. But now I am perfectly well.”
“Eh, that’s good news! Now come along and pour out tea and give me a big cup. Your aunt and the girls are detained in London with all these wedding bothers. She sent me Miss Puckle’s letter, that told all about that blithering old fool her uncle. Rather a smash up for Miss Puckle and you! Still it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good, and I am very glad to have you here. I say, where did that dog come from?” as Kipper trotted in with the footman, escort to poached eggs and hot buttered toast.
“He was Miss Puckle’s property,” I explained, “and she gave him to me; he really is a very good fellow.” (Yes, the days of slipper-eating were no more!)
“I’m afraid your aunt won’t stand him!” said my uncle, looking unexpectedly grave. “You see she keeps griffons herself—she has them with her now—and these fox-terriers are the devil for fighting, and besides that he is bound to disturb the game. However, I suppose he can stay till she comes back, and then maybe we shall be able to find him a good home.”
Uncle was a handsome dapper little man, with clean-cut features and a remarkably neat figure. Ronnie resembled him, and uncle reminded me of Ronnie in some ways. He and I, being tête à tête, got on famously: we went for long walks about the place, over the Home farm and round the coverts. Our tastes agreed; we both liked the country. We visited the gardens, the stables, and once or twice I rode to a meet in one of my cousin’s habits—which was a decidedly easy fit. After dinner we played piquet and talked politics; in short, we became great friends. Uncle imparted to me in confidence that he was not much in favour of the brilliant match. Finsbury was a fellow of his own age and something of a vieux marcheur. I think—as he smoked an excellent cigar by the fire in the library—uncle forgot that his listener was only a girl, and talked to me as freely as one man to another. “Finsbury’s lawyer had been very stiff over the settlements.” I also gathered that “Bev was terribly wild and extravagant, but could do no wrong in his mother’s eyes.”
“By Jove, she even jokes at his bills! There is nothing of the Lingard in him, not like Ronnie, who is a Lingard to the bone. I sometimes feel as if he were my own son. I am proud of Ronnie. As for you, my dear,” and he patted my arm affectionately, “you must make yourself at home here, now and always.”
“I should like to, uncle, if I may.”
“What is to hinder you?” he inquired.