“Arthur!”
“Well?”
“You’re not—”
He interrupted her.
“What have I said? Nothing about marrying her myself, have I? Take my advice, Gertrude, and don’t meddle. I’ve never stood meddling yet, and I’m not going to now. Mind you, this doesn’t matter to you or to any one else.”
“It does matter,” she persisted. “With the girl in my house, I am certainly responsible.”
“I deny it. If she’s satisfied, what have you to say?”
“Oh,” she said impatiently, “of course she’s satisfied! You know how to talk, and it is easy enough to please a girl of that age.”
“Very well, then. By your own showing, you’ve nothing to say. I’m going to marry her, and that’s the end of it.”
Fenwick was not a pleasant person to have an argument with; almost invariably it brought out in him a certain hard tenacity, which made other men angry. Perhaps Mrs Leslie was less sensitive to it than was the rest of the world, but even she shrank from the shock of clashing wills, which more than once had led to a bitter dispute between brother and sister. The conversation, however, had left her distinctly uncomfortable, and she reflected long whether she should give Claudia a hint. Yet it was difficult to know how much or how little she should say, and it seemed better that if nothing were really amiss, the girl should not have her suspicions raised. Only—for she was really a conscientious woman, and Claudia was a fatherless girl—she resolved that if things became worse, she would take her part determinedly against Arthur or any one else. And this not so much from liking as from an innate feeling for justice.