Conversation at her exit was between those two. John Germain never spoke to the young man if he could help it, and if he had occasion to look at him always blinked as he did so. Just now he had no occasion, being occupied with his thoughts, smiling quietly at them, drumming time to them with his thin fingers on the table.
We must inquire into Mr. Tristram’s avowed labours, and may not, perhaps, be surprised to find out of what nature they were. They had taken him, not to the study and the lamp, but into Lord Cantacute’s fine park by a wicket in the wall, to a largely spreading oak-tree and a seat upon the roots, to elbows on knees, a cigar, and some moments of frowning meditation, from which a light step upon the acorns caused him to look up, but not to rise. Miss Middleham, very flushed and bright-eyed, approached. She wore a cloak over her white dress. Watching her, his eyes narrowed, and as she came near hers lost much of their light.
“Good evening, Mr. Duplessis,” she said with careful formality.
He disregarded the greeting. “You’re late, my young friend.”
Then her grievance broke from her, and her eyes were eloquent with reproach. “My heart is in my mouth. I ought not to have come. You ought not to expect it.”
“I don’t,” he said. “I ask, but I never expect—and mostly I don’t want. What’s the matter?”
“Oh,” she sighed, “anything—everything. You never know who you may happen upon. And—if you’re going to be cross with me——”
“I’m not, my dear. I’m only cross with things that—well, with other sorts of things. Come and sit down. It’s all right now.”
She obeyed, but at some distance. She arranged her skirts over her ankles, and waited, not without the colour of expectancy, looking down at the toe of her shoe. Duplessis surveyed her at leisure.
“Well,” he said, and flicked the ash from his cigar, “I observed your junketings at the Rectory. My dear, you pleased.”