Meanwhile Melrose, in high spirits, and full of complaisance, now that the hated Undershaw had departed, walked up and down as usual, talking and smoking. It was evident that the whole process of unpacking his treasures had put him in a glow of excitement. The sudden interruption of habit had acted with stimulating power, his mind, like his home, had shaken off some of its dust. He talked about the pictures and furniture he had unearthed; the Latour pastels, the Gobelins in the gallery; rambling through scenes and incidents of the past, in a vivacious, egotistical monologue, which kept Faversham amused.
In the middle of it, however, he stopped abruptly, eying his guest.
"Can you write yet?"
"Pretty well. My arm's rather stiff."
"Make your nurse write some notes for you. That man—Undershaw—says you must have some society—invite some people."
Faversham laughed.
"I don't know a soul, either at Keswick or Pengarth."
"There have been some people inquiring after you."
"Oh, young Tatham? Yes, I knew him at Oxford."
"And the women—who are they?"