Had he ever appreciated her properly? Had he ever realised the exquisite beauty of her face, a beauty that was spiritual, was of expression rather than of mere form and mould of feature. How sweetly gracious she was, how charming, not even the loquacious and boresome Coombe aroused irritability in her—how his old father worshipped her—what a strange, yet perfect understanding there seemed to be between them, the old City man of business, of plebeian origin and this young and gracious well born lady. Yet they were so obviously and so certainly friends, good, close, true friends, with a mutual understanding and a mutual love for one another.
So Allan did not make the most agreeable of companions at that meal and his lordship felt uneasy.
"I wonder if the fellow suspects I'm going to ask a small loan, a mere trifle till I get back to town? Confound it, it's deuced unpleasant for a man in my position to—er—place himself under an obligation to a mere stripling like this! I can't ask Scarsdale, there's something deuced standoffish about the fellow; I almost wish I hadn't taken Scarsdale up again, I've got an idea that Scarsdale lets bygones rankle. By George, though, I did give him a dressing down in those days, and by George he deserved it—asked for it—begad, and got it too!"
Just for a moment Allan had an opportunity for a word with Kathleen when lunch was over.
"You—you are not angry with me?"
"Angry?"
Was she a woman of twenty-nine almost, or only a maiden of nineteen that suddenly her eyes dropped before his, that suddenly a deep rich colour came flaming her face.
"Kathleen—Kathleen!" He caught her hand, he was suddenly in a strange tremble, and then in on them burst Mr. Coombe.
"Wistaria, not westeria, Jobson, my boy, if you'd done the gardening I've done at Tulse Hill—I—I beg pardon!" stammered Mr. Coombe, taken aback.
Kathleen smiled. "You are quite right, Mr. Coombe, it is wistaria!" she said.