‘Yes. That is, a little French and German—a very little German.’
Tarrant mused, seemingly with no dissatisfaction.
CHAPTER 4
In her brother’s looks and speech Nancy detected something mysterious. Undoubtedly he was keeping a secret from her, and there could be just as little doubt that he would not keep it long. Whenever she questioned him about the holiday at Scarborough, he put on a smile unlike any she had ever seen on his face, so profoundly thoughtful was it, so loftily reserved. On the subject of Mrs. Damerel he did not choose to be very communicative; Nancy gathered little more than she had learnt from his letter. But very plainly the young man held himself in higher esteem than hitherto; very plainly he had learnt to think of ‘the office’ as a burden or degradation, from which he would soon escape. Prompted by her own tormenting conscience, his sister wondered whether Fanny French had anything to do with the mystery; but this seemed improbable. She mentioned Fanny’s name one evening.
‘Do you see much of her?’
‘Not much,’ was the dreamy reply. ‘When are you going to call?’
‘Oh, not at present,’ said Nancy.
‘You’ve altered again, then?’
She vouchsafed no answer.