He was a small man, dapper and a trifle horsey in his dress, but after an older fashion of collar and harness. He wore, typically, a shepherd’s-plaid tie, and his hat at an imperceptible angle. He always smelt fresh, and, somehow, of a genial shrewdness; and his manner towards me was a manner of kindly condescension. It was not until my school time was well over, and my days drifted into the purposelessness of an unattached loafer, that I became first conscious of an alteration in his attitude towards me. And the occasion which produced it was productive of a yet colder alienation from me on the part of Lady Skene, which was as significant of her nature as was his increased consideration for me of his.
One morning his lordship called me into his study. I stood before him, as I had often done before, vaguely on my guard between submission and independence, and he smiled on me, a little nervous and excited.
“How old are you, Gaskett—let’s see?” he said.
I answered: “I have come of age, sir.”
“Any plans for your future?”
“None.”
“Nothing thought of—no direction?”
“What could give them a direction here, sir?”
He looked at me a little, speculating.
“Perhaps we’ve let the question drift too long. Think it over and think it out. We must find a way to independence for you.”