‘But it should have been. I see that plain enough.’
There was silence between them for a spell, while the boy looked straight before him, frowning and a little white. Presently his companion spoke, caressingly and almost timidly:—
‘You are not angry with me, Brion, are you?’
‘Why should I be angry?’
‘Dear’—she leant a thought nearer to him—‘I don’t mind if you are a bustard.’
He nodded his head, setting his teeth:—
‘Gramercy for that! You mean very well—though I will not ask you what you mean. What I desire to know is Sir John’s charge against my Uncle.’
‘No charge, bless the boy—only a conjuncture.’
‘What—conjuncture?’—his lips twitched, though he kept his frown.
‘I’m afraid to tell that face. Make it kinder, Brion, or I dare not.’