'I suppose she does,' said Marmaduke, doubtfully—'but she wouldn't care so much if Fenwick wasn't there to talk about them.'
'His talk is admirable!' said Lord Findon.
'I dare say it is, but he isn't my sister's equal,' replied the son, with stolidity.
'A good artist is anybodyies equal,' cried Lord Findon, much heated.
'You don't really think it, papa,' said Marmaduke, firmly. 'Shall I give Eugénie a talking to?—as you're not in a condition.'
Lord Findon laughed, though not gaily.
'You'd better try! Or rather, I don't advise you to try!'
Marmaduke, however, did try; with the only result that Eugénie soon grew a little vexed and tremulous, and begged him to go home. He might be a master of brewing finance, and a dear, kind, well-meaning brother, but he really did not understand his sister's affairs.
Marmaduke went home, much puzzled, urgently commanding Theresa to write to him, and announcing to Arthur Welby, who listened silently, as he talked, that if Fenwick did propose, he should think it a damned impertinence.
Lord Findon meanwhile held his peace. Every day Eugénie came in from her walk with Fenwick, to sit with or read to her father. She always spoke of what she had been doing, quite naturally and simply, describing their walk and their conversation, giving the news of Fenwick's work—bringing his sketches to show. Lord Findon would lie and listen—a little suspicious and ill at ease—sometimes a little sulky. But he let his illness and his voicelessness excuse him from grappling with her. She must, of course, please herself. If she chose, as she seemed about to choose—why, they must all make the best of it!—Marmaduke might talk as he liked. Naturally, Arthur kept away from them. Poor Arthur! But what a darling she looked in her black, with this fresh touch of colour in her pale cheeks!