He had dreamed something about a new soup, with a taste of mint in it.
Those young people—where had they got to? His left leg had pins and needles.
“Adolf!” The rascal was not there; the rascal was asleep somewhere.
He stood up, tall, square, bulky in his fur, looking anxiously down over the fields, and presently he saw them coming.
Irene was in front; that young fellow—what had they nicknamed him—“The Buccaneer?” looked precious hangdog there behind her; had got a flea in his ear, he shouldn’t wonder. Serve him right, taking her down all that way to look at the house! The proper place to look at a house from was the lawn.
They saw him. He extended his arm, and moved it spasmodically to encourage them. But they had stopped. What were they standing there for, talking—talking? They came on again. She had been giving him a rub, he had not the least doubt of it, and no wonder, over a house like that—a great ugly thing, not the sort of house he was accustomed to.
He looked intently at their faces, with his pale, immovable stare. That young man looked very queer!
“You’ll never make anything of this!” he said tartly, pointing at the mansion;—“too newfangled!”
Bosinney gazed at him as though he had not heard; and Swithin afterwards described him to Aunt Hester as “an extravagant sort of fellow very odd way of looking at you—a bumpy beggar!”
What gave rise to this sudden piece of psychology he did not state; possibly Bosinney’s prominent forehead and cheekbones and chin, or something hungry in his face, which quarrelled with Swithin’s conception of the calm satiety that should characterize the perfect gentleman.