It is so easy not to do some things. Bevan, had he acted correctly, ought to have informed Mr Lambert of his visit to Highgate and all that therein lay, yet he did not. There was nothing to hide, yet, as Sir Boyle-Roche might have said, he hid it.
During tea several things occupied his mind very much. The vision of Fanny Lambert was constantly before him, so was the person of her father. He could not but acknowledge that Lambert was a most attractive personage—attractive to men, to women, to children, to dogs, cats—anything that could see and feel, in fact. Everything seemed to brighten in his presence. Hamilton-Cox's dictum that if Lambert could be bottled he would make the most excellent Burgundy, was not far wrong.
Bevan, as he sipped his tea, watched the genial Lambert, and could not but notice that he paid very marked attention to Pamela, and even more marked attention to old Miss Jenkins, her aunt.
This did not altogether please him, neither did the fact that Pamela seemed to enjoy the attentions of this man, who was her diametrical opposite.
To the profound philosopher who indites these lines it seems that between men and women in the mass there is very little difference. They act pretty much the same, except, perhaps, in the presence of mice. Bevan did very much what a woman would have done in his position: seeing his true love flirting with some one else, he flirted with some one else. Lulu Morgan was nearest to him, so he used her.
"I've been in England a twelvemonth," answered Miss Morgan, in reply to a query, "and I feel beginning to get crusted. They say the old carp in the pond in Versailles get moss-grown after they've been there a hundred and fifty years or so, and I feel like that. When I say I've been in England a twelvemonth, I mean Europe. I've been in England three months, and the rest abroad. Pamela picked me up in Paris, you'd just gone back home; Lady Scott introduced me to her. I was looking out for a job. I came over originally with the Vandervades, then Sadie Vandervade got married; I was her companion, and I lost the job. Of course I could have stayed on with old man Vandervade and his wife, but I wanted a job. I'm like a squirrel, put me in a cage with nothing to do, and I'd die. I must have a mill to turn, so I froze on to Pamela's offer. I write her letters, and do her accounts, and interview her tradespeople. I guess she's getting fat for want of work since I've been her companion. Yes, I like England, and I like this place; if the people could be scraped out of it clean, it would be considerably nicer. I went to church last Sunday to have a good long considerate look at them; they all arrived in carriages—every one here who has a shay of any description turns it out to go to church in on Sunday. Well, I went to have a good long look at them, and such a collection of stuffed images and plug-uglies I never beheld. I'm vicious about them p'rhaps, for they treated Pamela so mean, holding off from her when she first came, and then rushing down her throat when they found she knew a duchess. They'd boil themselves for a duchess. Say—you know the Lamberts? Isn't Fanny sweet?"
Mr Bevan started in his chair, but Miss Morgan did not notice, engrossed as she was with her own conversation.
"We met them in Paris; and I don't know which is sweeter, Fanny or her father. She was to have come down here with him, but she didn't. My, but she is pretty. And don't the men run after her! there were three men in Paris raving about her; she'd only known them two days, and they were near proposing to her. Don't wonder at it, I'd propose to her myself, if I was a man. But she's a little flirt all the same, and I told her so."
"Excuse me," said Bevan, "but I scarcely think you are justified—that is—from what I have heard of Miss Lambert, I would scarcely suspect her of being a—flirt."