'I don't know, Miss Stanley,' he answered, leaning one arm on the mantelpiece, and looking down, but not at her, though she had seated herself in a low chair near the fire, and was quite within easy visual range. 'I am not likely to know much more about my brother.'
'Not know much more about your brother, Mr Richard?' she said, opening her eyes very wide. 'What can you mean? Surely you haven't quarrelled?'
'I suppose we have quarrelled. At anyrate, my brother told me half an hour ago never to speak to him again on this side of the grave.'
Clare felt that this promised to be several degrees more interesting even than her book. She couldn't help wondering what they had quarrelled about. Was it perhaps—
'What did you say to him?'
'I said nothing—he went away, and I came here.' He spoke in that particularly even and monotonous voice which, with some people, is always the token of suppressed agitation.
'I mean what had you said to make him say that?'
'I told him the truth.'
'But perhaps you said the truth too sharply, and, besides, you ought to make it up with him—especially as you're the eldest. It's so terrible for brothers to quarrel.' She ended with a little didactic air which became her very well.
'I am afraid this is one of the quarrels that can't be made up. I can't alter facts; neither can he, unfortunately.'