He contradicted her with a lofty politeness.
She quoted a book on Kashmir.
He laughed the authority to scorn. “Lewis Haystoun?” he asked. “What can he know about such things? A wandering dilettante, the worst type of the pseudo-culture of our universities. He must see all things through the spectacles of his upbringing.”
Fortunately he spoke in a low voice, but Lord Manorwater caught the name.
“You are talking about Lewie,” he said; and then to the table at large, “do you know that Lewie is home? I saw him to-day.”
Bertha Afflint clapped her hands. “Oh, splendid! When is he coming over? I shall drive to Etterick to-morrow. No—bother! I can’t go to-morrow, I shall go on Wednesday.”
Lady Manorwater opened mild eyes of surprise. “Why didn’t the boy write?” And the young Arthur indulged in sundry exclamations, “Oh, ripping, I say! What? A clinking good chap, my cousin Lewie!”
“Who is this Lewis the well-beloved?” said Mr. Stocks. “I was talking about a very different person—Lewis Haystoun, the author of a foolish book on Kashmir.”
“Don’t you like it?” said Lord Manorwater, pleasantly. “Well, it’s the same man. He is my nephew, Lewie Haystoun. He lives at Etterick, four miles up the glen. You will see him over here to-morrow or the day after.”
Mr. Stocks coughed loudly to cover his discomfiture. Alice could not repress a little smile of triumph, but she was forbearing and for the rest of dinner exerted herself to appease her adversary, listening to his talk with an air of deference which he found entrancing.