“Why did you look so stonily indifferent when I came up,” he asked. “I was afraid you were annoyed with me for coming.”
Then I told him about Lady Katherine, and my stupidly not having mentioned meeting him at Branches.
“Oh! then I stayed with Christopher after you left—I see,” he said. “Had I met you in London?”
“We won’t tell any stories about it. They can think what they please.”
“Very well!” he laughed. “I can see I shall have to manœuvre a good deal to talk quietly to you here, but you will stand with me, won’t you, out shooting to-morrow!”
I told him I did not suppose we should be allowed to go out, except perhaps for lunch—but he said he refused to believe in such cruelty.
Then he asked me a lot of things about how I had been getting on, and what I intended to do next. He has the most charming way of making one feel that one knows him very well, he looks at one every now and then straight in the eyes, with astonishing frankness. I have never seen any person so quite without airs, I don’t suppose he is ever thinking a bit the effect he is producing. Nothing has two meanings with him like with Mr. Carruthers. If he had said I was to stay and marry him, I am sure he would have meant it, and I really believe I should have stayed!
“Do you remember our morning packing?” he said, presently, in such a caressing voice. “I was so happy, weren’t you?”
I said I was.