Eugenia, who was near the window, glanced out, listening a moment. “The matter—the matter”—she answered. “But you don’t say such things here.”
“If you mean that he had been drinking a little, you can say that.”
“He doesn’t drink any more. I have cured him. And in return—he’s in love with me.”
It was Acton’s turn to stare. He instantly thought of his sister; but he said nothing about her. He began to laugh. “I don’t wonder at his passion! But I wonder at his forsaking your society for that of your brother’s paint-brushes.”
Eugenia was silent a little. “He had not been in the studio. I invented that at the moment.”
“Invented it? For what purpose?”
“He has an idea of being romantic. He has adopted the habit of coming to see me at midnight—passing only through the orchard and through Felix’s painting-room, which has a door opening that way. It seems to amuse him,” added Eugenia, with a little laugh.
Acton felt more surprise than he confessed to, for this was a new view of Clifford, whose irregularities had hitherto been quite without the romantic element. He tried to laugh again, but he felt rather too serious, and after a moment’s hesitation his seriousness explained itself. “I hope you don’t encourage him,” he said. “He must not be inconstant to poor Lizzie.”
“To your sister?”
“You know they are decidedly intimate,” said Acton.