“You?”
“It was I who took the wretched man there. And of course it was an indiscretion to do that drawing; he was never really authorized to come back. In fact, Mr. Cranch gave orders to Catherine and all the other servants not to let him in if he did.”
“Well—?”
“One of the maids seems to have disobeyed the order; Mr. Cranch imagines she was bribed. He has been staying in Boston, and this morning, on the way back, he saw this magazine at the book-stall at the station. He was so horrified that he brought it to me. He came straight from the train without going home, so he doesn’t yet know how the thing happened.”
“It doesn’t take much to horrify him,” I said, again unable to restrain a faint sneer. “What’s the harm in the man’s having made that sketch?”
“Harm?” She looked surprised at my lack of insight. “No actual harm, I suppose; but it was very impertinent; and Mr. Cranch resents such liberties intensely. He’s so punctilious.”
“Well, we Americans are not punctilious, and being one himself, he ought to know it by this time.”
She pondered again. “It’s his Spanish blood, I suppose ... he’s frightfully proud.” As if this were a misfortune, she added: “I’m very sorry for him.”
“So am I, if such trifles upset him.”
Her brows lightened. “Ah, that’s what I tell him—such things are trifles, aren’t they? As I said just now: ‘Your life’s been too fortunate, too prosperous. That’s why you’re so easily put out.’”