"Awful!" said Mr. Dashwood.
"You met Mr. French in Dublin, I suppose?" said the girl.
"Yes, I met him in Dublin. Funny, wasn't it? We were staying at the same hotel, and I was coming down here, and he invited me to stay with him."
He stood with his back to the fire, warming himself and glancing about the comfortable room, and there was something in his manner that Miss Grimshaw could not quite make out—an almost imperceptible stiffness, a want of "spring." It was as though he were on his guard.
"Was it raining in Dublin?"
"Yes, most of the time. And I suppose you've been having it pretty bad here?"
"Awful."
She was dying to ask him why he had come over from England at this season of the year; why he had come down here. Who can tell, but in her heart she knew the reason perfectly, and, knowing it, felt perplexed with his strange manner and stiffness?
They talked on indifferent matters—Effie and so forth—till French came in. He had interviewed Moriarty, and he was full of the business of the horses; and, strange to say, with the entrance of French Mr. Dashwood's manner completely changed. His stiffness vanished, and he became his old, irresponsible, joyous self again.