How that poor little woman tried to do her duty! to show a polite interest, and to smile, when smiles were expected; while the ungrateful man counted her interest and approbation as nothing, and tried to win, at any rate, attention from the other two.
Even to Mr. Sandford, not himself an acute observer, there was something strained in Mr. Drayton's laughter, something unfriendly in Grace's expression. The moment he discovered it—the instant he read tacit disapproval and opposition—he was the more resolved that these two should bow to his decision, and accept his arrangement.
He observed, also, that it was Margaret who attracted most of his guest's attention. That must, of course, not be allowed; he must give him to understand at first that Margaret was out of the question. He did not wonder at it, however. There was a winning sweetness in Margaret's expression that must please every one. Young as she was, there was a composure, a repose of manner, wanting in her sister. It was the difference between one character absolutely forgetful of self and one full of self-consciousness.
Conversation is never more difficult, than when it ought to be there, never more spasmodic than when people meet—who know nothing of each other's likings or dislikings—and who have none of that light talk which dwells on politics, great events, and the last new song in one and the same breath.
Grace was intent upon the impression she was making. He was uninteresting, but, all the same, her silent disapproval of his noisy manner would put her in the position of being superior to all this uncalled-for merriment.
Margaret watched Grace, and felt sorry for the unconscious Mr. Drayton—so sorry that she began to talk to him—listening with a sense of completely missing the jokes when his laugh broke into his speech.
There was one subject of satisfaction to Mr. Sandford, the dinner was excellent; and this fact went far to soothe him. Men, though superior beings, are apt to feel this important affair, and Mr. Sandford was one of the men who felt any failure in this direction with great acuteness.
After discussing with playful heaviness those topics of conversation started by Margaret, Mr. Drayton threw a bomb-shell down by saying to Mrs. Dorriman—
"I saw a pretty little place you lived at till lately. I went over to see a boat I had heard of. A pretty place, but lonely. I dare say you got tired of the sea. The sea is a very dreary thing to me; I am ill when on it; cold when near it, and I hate it when I see it. Ah! ah! ah!"
"I love the sea," said Mrs. Dorriman; "it is to me a friend and a companion. There is always something grand to me in its monotony, as in its angry moods. I love it best when it sends showers of spray up into the air, and comes dashing in in all its might."