“O, I don’t know so much about that!” said Max; “but we were always very good friends.”
“You puppy!” muttered Mrs Brandon.
“Always liked her because of the interest she took in a sister of mine. Down soon, I suppose?”
“Who—Miss Bedford?” said Mrs Brandon.
“Ya-as,” drawled Max; “should like to have a quiet chat with her;” and he directed one of his most taking glances at the lady, who, all smiles and good-humour, had been studying his manners and dress in a way that Max set down for admiration, and presuming thereon, he grew every moment more confidential. “You see, when she was at home, Mrs Brandon, I felt a natural diffidence.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Mrs Brandon.
“Natural diffidence—kind of drawing back, you know,” explained Max. “Didn’t seem the sort of thing, you see, to be too attentive to the governess; but—er—er—must own to a sort of weakness in that direction. Nature, you see—bai Jove!—and that sort of thing, for she is a dooced attractive girl.”
“Very,” said Mrs Brandon; and Max went on, for he was in his blind-rut mood—a rut in which he could run on for hours without ever seeing that he was being laughed at.
“Glad you think so—I am, bai Jove! Very kind of you too, to be so cordial and—”
“Pray do not imagine—” began Mrs Brandon.