The man was talking of the Hunt Ball of last winter. Disney heard such snatches of speech as “the prettiest woman in the room,” “everybody said so,” “Lostwithiel was evidently épris.”
Mr. Crowther had a penchant for scraps of French, which decorated his speech as truffles adorn a boned turkey.
“Isn’t it odd that he should be such a rover?” he asked, in a less confidential tone than before.
Isola looked up at him, as if hardly understanding the question.
“I mean Lostwithiel. With such a nice place as he has here, it seems a pity to be broiling himself in Peru. I never could understand the taste for orchids; and in his case—well, I hardly believe in it. He is the last man to emulate a Hooker or a Lawrence. Orchid-hunting must be an excuse for keeping away from England, I take it. Don’t you think so, now, Mrs. Disney?”
“I really don’t know.”
“You don’t know why he should want to keep away? No, no more does anybody else. Only we all wonder, don’t you know. He talked to me of settling down in the county—looking after the estate a little. He even hinted that he might, in due course, cast about for a nice young wife—with a little money. And then all of a sudden off he sails in that rakish yacht of his, and roves from port to port like the Flying Dutchman in the Opera, till at last we hear of him on the coast of Peru. Curious, ain’t it, Mrs. Disney?”
“Why curious?” asked Isola, coldly. “Was not Lord Lostwithiel always fond of yachting?”
“No doubt; but when a man talks of settling down in his native place—and then doesn’t do it—there must be a reason, mustn’t there?”
“I don’t know. People act as often from caprice as from reason.”