He stopped. “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly, looking into her eyes, very soft and mild but always with that lingering humour behind their mildness. “I’m afraid I was rude to that fellow this afternoon.”
“Yes,” she said, turning to him but with her eyes still on the black towers. “You were—but it would have no effect on Mr. Seymour.”
He felt, as he stood there, that he wished to explain that he was not naturally so unpolished a barbarian.
“Russia,” he began, hesitating and looking at her almost appealingly, “is a sore point with me. You can’t tell—unless you’ve lived there how it grows upon you, holds you, and, at last, begs you to stand up for it whenever it may be attacked. And he didn’t know—really he didn’t—”
“You’re taking it much too seriously,” she said, laughing at him, he felt. “No one thought that he did know. But Mother likes him and he’s Henry’s friend. And we all stick together as a family.”
“I’m afraid your mother thought me abominable,” he said, looking up at her and looking away again.
“Mother’s old-fashioned,” Katherine answered. “So am I—so are we all. We’re an old-fashioned family. We’ve never had anyone like you to stay with us before.”
“It’s abominable that I should stay on like this. I’ll go to-morrow.”
“No, don’t do that. Father loves having you. We all like you—only we’re a little afraid of your ways”—she moved down the passage. “We’re very good for you, I expect, and I’m sure you’re very good for us.” She suddenly turned back towards him, and dropping her voice, quite solemnly said to him, “The great thing about us is that we’re fond of one another. That makes it all the harder for anyone from outside....”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said, carrying on her note of confidence, “I like people to like me. I’m very foolish about it. It’s the chief thing I want.”