He looked surprised at my remark, and instantly I bethought myself of the character for fastidiousness which Hubert had given him, and resolved to be less impulsive in expressing my feelings.
"You must make society for yourself then in other than the human element. I cannot think any one could rejoice, on waking in the morning, merely to renew intercourse with our Cavendish neighbors."
I looked up eagerly—"Then you don't care for them, either?"
"Ah, I see it is not from your own species you draw satisfaction."
"But you have not answered my question."
There was a gleam of humor swept over the face I was already finding so hard to read.
"I am not well enough versed in Cavendish society to give a just opinion—probably you have already drank more cups of tea with your friends than I have done in ten years. Let me hear your verdict."
"Our Deportment Professor assured us it was exceedingly bad form to discuss one's acquaintance—you will please excuse me."
I was already getting afraid of my guardian. But, from childhood, there was a spice of fearlessness in my composition that manifested itself even when I was most frightened. Again I glanced into his face—he was regarding me with a peculiar intentness, as if I were some new plant brought into the conservatory from an unknown region, and he was trying to classify me. I could see no trace of warm, human interest in his gaze.
"That was a rather mutinous remark to bestow so soon upon your guardian," he said, in the same even voice.