Colin, whatever his private sentiments were, had an infinite lightness of touch in the expression of them. He had declared, not to Violet alone, but to Raymond himself, that he frankly detested him, and yet there was a grace about the manner of the presentment that rendered his hatred, if not laudable, at any rate, venial. And his account of the quarrel last night was touched with the same graceful brush. Without overstepping the confines of truth, he left the impression that he had been reasonable and gentle, Raymond headstrong and abusive.
This, too, was part of his policy; when others were present, he would make himself winningly agreeable to Raymond, and shew a control and an indulgence highly creditable in view of his brother’s brusque ways, and take no provocation at his hands. That would accentuate the partisanship of the others, which already was his, and would deprive Raymond of any lingering grain of sympathy. When he and Raymond were alone, he would exercise none of this self-restraint; he would goad and sting him with a thousand biting darts.
The three strolled out presently into the gallery; Lady Hester and Violet passed Raymond without speech, but Colin sauntered up to him.
“Coming out to play tennis presently?” he asked.
Colin’s careful closing of the dining-room door had not been lost on his brother. Raymond had interpreted it just as Colin wished him to, and he was boiling with rage.
“No, I’m not,” said he.
Colin turned to where Violet was standing, just shrugged his shoulders with a lift of the eyebrows, and went on towards her without spoken comment.
“Tennis soon, Vi?” he asked. “We’ll have to play a single.”
“Right. That will be jolly,” said Violet. “In half an hour?”
Colin nodded, and passed on to Lady Hester. “Come out, Aunt Hester, and let’s sit in the shade somewhere till Vi’s ready. It’s lovely outside.”