Saton wondered afterwards many times at the extraordinary nonchalance with which he faced the remainder of that terrible day. He wrote several letters, and was aware that he wrote them carefully and well. He had his usual evening bath and changed his clothes, making perhaps a little more careful toilet even than usual.
Rachael, who was waiting for him when he descended to dinner, even remarked upon the lightness of his step.
“The country suits you, Bertrand,” she said. “It suits you better than it does me. You walk like a boy, and there is color in your cheeks.”
“The sun,” he muttered. “I always tan quickly.”
“Where have you been to?” she asked.
“I have been walking with Miss Champneyes,” he answered.
Rachael nodded.
“And your friend at Beauleys?” she asked, with a little sneer. “What if he had seen you, eh? You are very brave, Bertrand, for he is a big man, and you are small. I do not think that he loves you, eh? But what about the girl?”
A servant entered the room, and Saton with relief abandoned the conversation. She returned to it, however, the moment they were alone.
“See here, my son,” she said, “remember what I have always told you. One can do without anything in this world except money. We have plenty for the moment, it is true, but a stroke of ill-fortune, and our income might well vanish. Now listen, Bertrand. Make sure of this girl’s money. She is of age, and she will marry you.”