“It does well enough,” murmured Miss Arbuthnot, with a glance at the deep fern beside them.
“You don’t suppose I had the trees cut down except where it would be an improvement? And of course Mr Hilton is glad to—have those improvements.” She felt her speech feeble, and it made her angry.
“Of course. I am afraid what is good for one is often disagreeable, but, as you say, a supporting sense of virtue remains. Harry is such a capital fellow that he deserves all he can get.”
It should be noted that Miss Arbuthnot, accustomed to be regarded, had no idea that Harry had broken loose, and run his stubborn head against a wall, or she would not have chosen such a moment for sinking; his praises. Claudia was too young, or too ignorant of love, to feel kindly towards a man for falling in love with her, and was only annoyed at what she considered a commonplace episode in what she intended to be anything but a commonplace career. As yet she had no conception of the true proportion of things, and dismissing love and such trifles as mere hindrances, her companion’s words irritated her the more against Harry.
“Oh, he will get all he deserves, no doubt,” she observed airily. “That kind of character doesn’t want much.” Then she had the grace to blush, and to go on hurriedly, “He will be always quite contented to vegetate at Thornbury, stroll about with his gun, and make an ideal magistrate—or what people consider ideal, which does just as well.”
Miss Arbuthnot stopped to whisk away a wasp.
“Do you find fault with your picture?”
“Well, it doesn’t seem very interesting, that’s all.”
“I like discussing other people’s characters,” said Miss Arbuthnot lazily; “I find it much simpler than meditating upon one’s own. So you think Harry commonplace? Why?”
“Why? How can it be otherwise? He has no ambition, no aims beyond Thornbury, no work. A man who doesn’t work is a wretched being.”