There was something withdrawn, strangely colourless about the boy’s personality, that seemed to nullify any possibility of the assimilation of an atmosphere.
He and Rose for the most part spent the holidays at Squires. There Cecil was more eager and more natural, except when Ford was present.
His old, childish admiration for his uncle had entirely disappeared, but in its place was a silent hostility that rather frightened Rose, betraying as it did a depth of bitterness entirely foreign to her own outspoken, abusive dislike.
She once said to Cecil, “You don’t like Ford, do you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Well, he’s rather a beast, I think,” said Cecil slowly. “He sneers at me.”
“I know. He’s always been like that.”
“He’s a beast to you, too, Mummie. Sometimes I want to knock him down when he looks at you with that smile of his, turning down the corners of his mouth.”
“Darling!” cried Rose impulsively.