“Nepenthe?—ah, that’s a novel people were talking about some time ago. My aunt was full of it, because she fancied it embodied some of her own ideas. She wanted me to read it. I tried a few chapters,” said Malcolm, making a wry face. “Sickly stuff.”
“People who are not in the habit of reading the literature of imagination can hardly understand such a book as Nepenthe,” replied Pamela severely. “They are out of touch with the spirit and the atmosphere of the book.”
“One has to be trained up to that kind of thing, I suppose. One must forget that two and two make four, in order to get into the proper frame of mind, eh? Is the author of Nepenthe an interesting man?”
He was shrewd enough to interpret the blush aright. The author of Nepenthe was a person to be dreaded by any aspirant to Miss Ransome’s favour.
“He is like his book,” answered Pamela briefly.
“Is he a young man?”
“I don’t know your idea of youth. He is older than my aunt—about five-and-thirty.”
Stuart was just thirty. One point in his favour, anyhow, he told himself, not knowing that to a romantic girl years may be interesting.
“Handsome?”
“That is always a matter of opinion. He is just the kind of man who ought to have written Nepenthe. That is really all I can tell you,” said Pamela, with some irritation. “I believe Lady Lochinvar knew Mr. Castellani when he was a very young man. She can satisfy your curiosity about him.”