“Didn’t I tell you that a maid was a nuisance?” Henrietta enquired. “Your young lady has probably remained at Calais.”
“I don’t care,” said Isabel, looking at Mr. Bantling, whom she had never found so interesting.
“Stay with her while I go and see,” Henrietta commanded, leaving the two for a moment together.
They stood there at first in silence, and then Mr. Bantling asked Isabel how it had been on the Channel.
“Very fine. No, I believe it was very rough,” she said, to her companion’s obvious surprise. After which she added: “You’ve been to Gardencourt, I know.”
“Now how do you know that?”
“I can’t tell you—except that you look like a person who has been to Gardencourt.”
“Do you think I look awfully sad? It’s awfully sad there, you know.”
“I don’t believe you ever look awfully sad. You look awfully kind,” said Isabel with a breadth that cost her no effort. It seemed to her she should never again feel a superficial embarrassment.
Poor Mr. Bantling, however, was still in this inferior stage. He blushed a good deal and laughed, he assured her that he was often very blue, and that when he was blue he was awfully fierce. “You can ask Miss Stackpole, you know. I was at Gardencourt two days ago.”