Christopher’s mood received an unpleasant jar.
“That’s Mr. Hawkins’ punt,” he replied shortly.
“Yes, I thought it was,” said Francie, too much preoccupied to notice the flatness of her companion’s tone.
There was another pause, and then she spoke again.
“Mr. Dysart, d’ye think—would you mind telling me, was Lady Dysart mad with me last night?” She blushed as she looked at him, and Christopher was much provoked to feel that he also became red.
“Last night?” he echoed in a tone of as lively perplexity as he could manage; “what do you mean? Why should my mother be angry with you?” In his heart he knew well that Lady Dysart had been, as Francie expressed it, “mad.”
“I know she was angry,” pursued Francie. “I saw the look she gave me when I was getting out of the brougham, and then this morning she was angry too. I didn’t think it was any harm to sit in the brougham.”
“No more it is. I’ve often seen her do it herself.”
“Ah! Mr. Dysart, I didn’t think you’d make fun of me,” she said with an accent on the “you” that was flattering, but did not altogether please Christopher. “You know,” she went on, “I’ve never stayed in a house like this before. I mean—you’re all so different—”
“I think you must explain that remarkable statement,” said Christopher, becoming Johnsonian as was his wont when he found himself in a difficulty. “It seems to me we’re even depressingly like ordinary human beings.”