“I hope so. Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not here on the same footing as your other guests—as Miss Baynes, for instance. I have only come for a purpose.”
“What on earth has that to do with it?”
“Everything. You really must try to see what I mean.”
“I can’t,” he muttered.
“Oh yes, you can. Suppose, for instance, that I were an artist come down to paint your mother’s portrait. Then you’d expect me to stick to my work, wouldn’t you?” Claudia spoke sadly and temperately, as one might to a thick-headed child.
“No artist would paint all day,” he persisted obstinately.
“Nor am I going to work all day. I suppose I shall eat and drink and sleep—”
“And amuse yourself.”
“Yes, and amuse myself, when there is nothing better to do. But even while he was doing all this, the painter would have an eye to business; he would be studying your mother’s expression, and little ways, and characteristic movements.”
“Oh, well, if that’s what you’d like, I can take you all over the place, and show you everything,” said Harry with renewed cheerfulness. “Nobody knows it better than I do. There are some old oaks behind the house.”