“News? I don’t understand you,” said Cecil. “News?”
Mr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward.
“I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!”
“Has he indeed?” said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder.
“Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I’ll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you.”
“I’m shockingly stupid over local affairs,” said the young man languidly. “I can’t even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, or perhaps those aren’t the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don’t feel to exist on sufferance.”
Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert, determined to shift the subject.
“Let me see, Mr. Vyse—I forget—what is your profession?”
“I have no profession,” said Cecil. “It is another example of my decadence. My attitude—quite an indefensible one—is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don’t care a straw about, but somehow, I’ve not been able to begin.”
“You are very fortunate,” said Mr. Beebe. “It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure.”