“Indeed, it gives him great originality. Our old families need refreshing now and then.”
“Ah, yes, I said so to Mrs. Gasgoyne the other day, and she replied that the refreshment might prove intoxicating. Reine was always rude.”
Truth is, Mrs. Gasgoyne was not quite satisfied. That very day she said to her husband:
“You men always stand by each other; but I know you, and you know that I know.”
“‘Thou knowest the secrets of our hearts’; well, then, you know how we love you. So, be merciful.”
“Nonsense, Warren! I tell you he oughtn’t to have gone when he did. He has the wild man in him, and I am not satisfied.”
“What do you want—me to play the spy?”
“Warren, you’re a fool! What do I want? I want the first of September to come quickly, that we may have him with us. With Delia he must go straight. She influences him, he admires her—which is better than mere love. Away from her just now, who can tell what mad adventure—! You see, he has had the curb so long!”
But in a day or two there came a letter-unusually long for Gaston—to Mrs. Gasgoyne herself. It was simple, descriptive, with a dash of epigram. It acknowledged that he had felt the curb, and wanted a touch of the unconventional. It spoke of Ian Belward in a dry phrase, and it asked for the date of the yacht’s arrival at Gibraltar.
“Warren, the man is still sensible,” she said. “This letter is honest. He is much a heathen at heart, but I believe he hasn’t given Delia cause to blush—and that’s a good deal! Dear me, I am fond of the fellow—he is so clever. But clever men are trying.”