I never scruple to speak my mind to Francis Charteris. We do not much like one another, and are both aware of it. His soft, silken politeness often strikes me as insincere, and my “want of refinement,” as he terms it, may be quite as distasteful to him. We do not suit, and were we ever so fond of one another, this incompatibility would be apparent. People may like and respect one another extremely, yet not suit, even as two good tunes are not always capable of being harmonised. I once heard an ingenious performer try to play at once, “The Last Rose of Summer,” and “Garry Owen.” The result resembled many a conversation between Francis and me.
This promised to be one of them; so, as a preventive measure, I suggested luncheontime.
“Oh, thank you, I am not hungry, I lunched at Birmingham.”
Still, it might have struck Francis that other people had not.
We crossed the gardens towards the river, under the great Portugal laurels, which he stood to admire.
“I have watched their growth ever since I was a boy. You know, Dora, once this place was to have been mine.”
“It would have given you a vast deal of trouble, and you don't like trouble. You will enjoy it much more as a visitor.”
Francis made no reply, and when I asked the reason of his sudden change of plans, and if Penelope were acquainted with it, he seemed vexed.
“Of course Penelope knows; I wrote today, and told her my purpose in coming here was to see Sir William. Cannot a man pay his respects to his uncle without being questioned and suspected?”
“I never suspected you, Francis,—until now, when you look as if you were afraid I should. What is the matter? Do tell me.”