“I did not see him after; he went away almost immediately after Sir Brook. I heard his voice talking with grandpapa in the garden, but I went to my room, and we did not meet.”
“As they spoke in the garden, were their voices raised? Did they talk like men excited or in warmth?”
“Yes. Their tone and manner were what you say,—so much so that I went away, not to overhear them. Grandpapa, I know, was angry at something; and when we met at luncheon, he barely spoke to me.”
“And what conclusion did you draw from all this?”
“None! There was nothing to induce me to dwell on the circumstance; besides,” added she, with some irritation, “I am not given to reason upon the traits of people's manner, or their tone in speaking.”
“Nor perhaps accustomed to inquire, when your grandfather is vexed, what it is that has irritated him.”
“Certainly not. It is a liberty I should not dare to take.”
“Well, darling,” said she, with a saucy laugh, “he is more fortunate in having you for a granddaughter than me. I 'm afraid I should have less discretion,—at all events, less dread.”
“Don't be so sure of that,” said Lucy, quietly. “Grandpapa is no common person. It is not his temper but his talent that one is loath to encounter.”
“I do not suspect that either would terrify me greatly. As the soldiers say, Lucy, I have been under fire pretty often, and I don't mind it now. Do you know, child, that we have got into a most irritable tone with each other? Each of us is saying something that provokes a sharp reply, and we are actually sparring without knowing it.”