“I do not think that he has any chance whatever,” Prescott said quietly; “but you were always an upholder of your cousin—what has changed your opinion of him?”
“I don’t think that anything has changed it as far as I am concerned, Prescott,” Frank said, sitting down again; “you know he is not my sort of man. I believe just as much as I did that he is not a bad-hearted fellow—far from it; that is, I have no reason for believing otherwise. But you see I have been away for some time, and his cantankerous way comes upon me fresh. I never know whether he is making fun of me or not, and he does try my temper, which is, you know, none of the best, most amazingly. Although I know it is only prejudice, I own I do not like to see him hanging over Alice, turning over the leaves of her music for her, and that sort of thing; it makes me somehow feel cold and uncomfortable all over, and as I have said, rather than that he should marry her, I would save her from it by marrying her myself. Of course supposing that she would have me.”
“There is no fear, Frank, that you will be called upon to sacrifice yourself to prevent that contingency happening. Whatever Miss Heathcote may do, be assured she will never fall in love with Fred Bingham. As for what you say about your feelings towards him, it is not a prejudice against which you are struggling, it is a natural antipathy; one of those instincts which nature gives us against what is dangerous and bad. You know what we all felt about him at Cambridge; you would not agree with us, you fought against the idea, but your instinct is too strong for you, and you will end by thinking like the rest of us.”
“No, no, Prescott, I will not allow that; I grant that he irritates me more than he did, and that somehow, although I have no idea why, I should not like to see Alice marry him; but I have not the least reason for changing my opinion that he is a good fellow at heart.”
“He is a bad egg,” Prescott said, dogmatically. “A bad egg, Frank; do what you will with him, he is bad to the core. His shell is white enough, but some day when you crack it, and find what a rotten inside it’s got, you will regret deeply enough that you ever took it in your hand.”
“You are a prejudiced beggar, Prescott,” Frank said, laughing; “but I know it is no use my arguing the point with you. Time will show which is right.”
Prescott nodded, and there was a short silence, when Frank rose.
“The sun is shining, Prescott, the afternoon is quite changed; suppose we go out. Oh, nonsense, you said you would give me the afternoon. Where shall we go?”
“It’s all the same to me, Frank.”
“I wish to goodness it was not, Prescott; you give me all the trouble of thinking—there now, I’ve got another idea—let’s go and see the boy that picked the dog out of the Serpentine.”