‘I am not prejudiced at all. I have no interest of any kind in Mr. Mutimer.’
The words were spoken hurriedly and with a ring almost of hostility. At the same time the girl’s cheeks flushed. She felt herself hard beset. A network was being woven about her by hands she could not deem other than loving; it was time to exert herself that the meshes might not be completed, and the necessity cost her a feeling of shame.
‘But your brother’s friend, my dear. Surely you ought not to say that you have no interest in him at all.’
‘I do say it, mother, and I wish to say it so plainly that you cannot after this mistake me. Alfred’s friends are very far from being necessarily my friends. Not only have I no interest in Mr. Mutimer, I even a little dislike him.’
‘I had no idea of that, Adela,’ said her mother, rather blankly.
‘But it is the truth, and I feel I ought to have tried to make you understand that sooner. I thought you would see that I had no pleasure in speaking of him.’
‘But how is it possible to dislike him? I confess that is very hard for me to understand. I am sure his behaviour to you is perfect—so entirely respectful, so gentlemanly.’
‘No, mother, that is not quite the word to use. You are mistaken; Mr. Mutimer is not a perfect gentleman.’
It was said with much decision, for to Adela’s mind this clenched her argument. Granted the absence of certain qualities which she held essential in a gentleman, there seemed to her no reason for another word on the subject.
‘Pray, when has he misbehaved himself?’ inquired her mother, with a touch of pique.