She stretched her hand to her brother. He kissed it spiritedly.
‘Look ahead, my dear girl. Help me to finish this wine. There ‘s nothing like good hard walking to give common wine of the country a flavour—and out of broken crockery.’
‘I think it so good,’ Carinthia replied, after drinking from the cup. ‘In England they, do not grow wine. Are the people there kind?’
‘They’re civilized people, of course.’
‘Kind—warm to you, Chillon?’
‘Some of them, when you know them. “Warm,” is hardly the word. Winter’s warm on skates. You must do a great deal for yourself. They don’t boil over. By the way, don’t expect much of your uncle.’
‘Will he not love me?’
‘He gives you a lodging in his house, and food enough, we’ll hope. You won’t see company or much of him.’
‘I cannot exist without being loved. I do not care for company. He must love me a little.’
‘He is one of the warm-hearted race—he’s mother’s brother; but where his heart is, I ‘ve not discovered.