“Yellow and brown.”
“There,” said Mrs. Gasgoyne, “we are both wrong, Captain Maudsley. Sophie never makes a mistake.” Maudsley assented politely, but, stealing a look at Lady Dargan, wondered what the little by-play meant. Gaston was between Sir William and Mrs. Gasgoyne. He declined soup and fish, which had just been served, because he wished for time to get his bearings. He glanced at the menu as if idly interested, conscious that he was under observation. He felt that he had, some how, the situation in his hands. Everything had gone well, and he knew that his part had been played with some aplomb—natural, instinctive. Unlike most large men, he had a mind always alert, not requiring the inspiration of unusual moments. What struck him most forcibly now was the tasteful courtesy which had made his entrance easy. He instinctively compared it to the courtesy in the lodge of an Indian chief, or of a Hudson’s Bay factor who has not seen the outer world for half a century. It was so different, and yet it was much the same. He had seen a missionary, a layreader, come intoxicated into a council of chiefs. The chiefs did not show that they knew his condition till he forced them to do so. Then two of the young men rose, suddenly pinned him in their arms, carried him out, and tied him in a lodge. The next morning they sent him out of their country. Gaston was no philosopher, but he could place a thing when he saw it: which is a kind of genius.
Presently Sir William said quietly:
“Mrs. Gasgoyne, you knew Robert well; his son ought to know you.”
Gaston turned to Mrs. Gasgoyne, and said in his father’s manner as much as possible, for now his mind ran back to how his father talked and acted, forming a standard for him:
“My father once told me a tale of the Keithley Hunt—something ‘away up,’ as they say in the West—and a Mrs. Warren Gasgoyne was in it.”
He made an instant friend of Mrs. Gasgoyne—made her so purposely. This was one of the few things from his father’s talks upon his past life. He remembered the story because it was interesting, the name because it had a sound.
She flushed with pleasure. That story of the Hunt was one of her sweetest recollections. For her bravery then she had been voted by the field “a good fellow,” and an admiral present declared that she had a head “as long as the maintop bow-line.” She loved admiration, though she had no foolish sentiment; she called men silly creatures, and yet would go on her knees across country to do a deserving man-friend a service. She was fifty and over, yet she had the springing heart of a girl—mostly hid behind a brusque manner and a blunt, kindly tongue.
“Your father could always tell a good story,” she said.
“He told me one of you: what about telling me one of him?”