“Why does a man hate poverty and humiliation, Miss Mason? You might as well ask me that. Suppose we drop the subject. It isn’t a very agreeable one to me, I assure you.”
“But your voyage home,” pursued Laura, quite unabashed by this rebuff; “you can tell us your adventures during the voyage home?”
“I had no adventures. Men who travel by the overland route may have something to tell, perhaps: I came the cheapest and the slowest way.”
“By a sailing vessel?”
“Yes.”
“And what was the name of the vessel?”
“The Indus.”
“The Indus, that’s an easy name to remember. But of course you had all sorts of amusements on board: you played whist in the cuddy—what is the cuddy, by the bye?—and you got up private theatricals, and you started an amateur newspaper, or a magazine, and you crossed the line, and——”
“Oh, yes, we went through the usual routine. It was dreary enough. Pray tell me something about Hazlewood, Miss Mason; I am a great deal more interested in Berkshire than you can possibly be in my Indian experiences.”
The young lady was fain to submit. She told Mr. Darrell such scraps and shreds of gossip as form the “news” in a place like Hazlewood. He listened very attentively to anything Miss Mason had to tell about his uncle, Maurice de Crespigny.