And yet she had told me nothing! Nothing—and to the fearful swift apprehension of a jealous foster-father, everything!
I pulled myself together and examined the man: tall, regular-featured, with a high forehead due more to thinning hair than to formation of skull. Eyeglasses. His general expression suggested a somewhat condescending benignity, with assurance. I didn’t like him.
“His name is Eustace Holt,” Rose said. “He wants me to marry him.”
“Yes?” I heard my voice say.
“I rather think I shall.”
I had no more words. I drew her to me and kissed her hair. The action, I suppose, implied a kind of possessive protectiveness. I had wondered vaguely how I should behave when the news broke: and this was the way!
After a long silence Rose went on to say that he was a barrister; had been a private tutor for a while after leaving Oxford, but was now at the Bar and beginning to do well in chamber practice. Not an advocate.
I looked at the photograph again. Probably I should have been cool about any young man who had captured Rose’s heart, knowing so well that none could be worthy; but to this one I felt positive hostility. He had the effect of filling me with a sudden warm rush of affection for Ronnie.
“Well?” Rose said.