Lacrima returned to him a very wan little smile.
“I suppose you mean ingratiating yourself,” she said; “you English have such funny expressions.”
“Yes, ingratiating myself, pandering to them, flattering them, agreeing with them, anticipating their wishes, doing their work for them, telling lies for them, abusing God to make them laugh, introducing them to Guy de Maupassant, and even making a few light references, now and again, to what Shakespeare calls ‘country-matters.’”
“I don’t believe a word you say,” protested Lacrima in rather a quavering voice. “I believe you hate them all and that they are all unkind to you. But I can quite imagine you have to do more work than your own.”
Mr. Quincunx’s countenance lost its merriment instantaneously.
“I believe you are as annoyed as Mr. Romer,” he said, “that I should get on in the office. But I am past being affected by that. I know what human nature is! We are all really pleased when other people get on badly, and are sorry when they do well.”
Lacrima felt as though the trees in the field opposite had suddenly reversed themselves and were waving their roots in the air.
She gave a little shiver and pressed her hand to her side.
Mr. Quincunx continued.