‘I know it to be damp,’ responded Miss Shuttleworth, in a manner which Jerome, unaccustomed to her as he was, felt imperatively called for a reply, or another question of some kind.
‘So damp as to make it unadvisable to live there?’ he inquired.
‘I should say it was a most unhealthy house to live in. If you wish to become rheumatic at once, and to grow old before your years, by all means live at Monk’s Gate.’
‘As it is all the home I now possess,’ responded Jerome, ‘it is probable that I shall live there, despite the disadvantages you mention.’
‘All the home you possess?’ repeated Nita, and Jerome turned to her with a sense of pleasure in the contrast between her and her relative.
Miss Shuttleworth absolutely revolted him with her plainness, her hard features, her metallic voice, and her unengaging manner. In comparison, Nita, though not a beauty, looked charming. He met her soft brown eyes with pleasure, and saw the slight shyness, the little air of timidity and shrinking, with feelings of complacency. At this juncture Mr. Bolton rose, remarking:
‘Well, I’ll leave Mr. Wellfield to you to entertain. I have some writing to do. I suppose I shall see you at supper, Margaret?’
‘Not to-night, thank you. I have my Bible class, and shall have to go in about an hour.’
‘Oh, well, come to-morrow, or as often as you can, at any rate,’ he answered; and with a general inclination of the head to the company, he departed.
Jerome looked after him, as he went down the river walk, and realised that the whole figure, though plebeian, was powerful, not without a certain air, too, of dignity and command. He turned to Nita again.