“Of course not, Beauchamp; how stupid you are!” exclaimed Gertrude. “Why should Herbert and his wife go about the country paying visits, and leave their grown-up daughter at home? She is past eighteen, and out, I told you. And very pretty,” she added, injudiciously.
“Oh, indeed, I understand now,” answered Beauchamp, meekly, and looking across the table, the expression in Roma’s eyes told him that she knew he now did understand.
“Poor dear Gertrude! So that is why I was sent for in such a hurry,” he observed, when, breakfast being over, Roma and he were left by themselves for a short time. “Couldn’t you make her comprehend, Roma, that she might save herself the trouble?”
Miss Eyrecourt was standing by the window, looking over her letters. She seemed perfectly cool and comfortable, in no way embarrassed by finding herself, for the first time for some months, alone with her would-be lover. She looked up at him when he spoke to her, and answered quietly and deliberately—
“No, Beauchamp, I certainly could not do anything of the kind. If you have anything to say to Gertrude, you must say it yourself. I am not going to come between you two in any way. I don’t want to meddle in your affairs at all; no advice of mine is likely to do good. Now, Beauchamp,” she went on, in a different tone, half remonstrating, half coaxing, “do let us be nice and comfortable together. And do try not to vex Gertrude, that’s a good boy. If her plans don’t please you, there is time enough to say so, and you need not vex her by seeming determined to thwart her beforehand. Those sorts of schemes generally right themselves—very likely Addie Chancellor is already out of your reach—she it pretty, I have seen her. There, now, after all, I have begun advising and warning you, and I vowed I would never do so again.”
She looked very handsome this morning. She was, as usual, beautifully dressed, and it was some time since Beauchamp had been in the company of a perfectly attired, perfectly well-bred, self-possessed woman of Roma’s order. Beside her, Eugenia Laurence, lovely as she was, rose to his mind’s eye as an unformed child. He was in a mood to be very sensitive to Miss Eyrecourt’s particular attractions, and something in her manner impressed him pleasantly. She seemed softer and less satirical than her wont. There was a half playfulness, a coaxingness in her way of speaking to him which, in his opinion, became her marvellously.
“And why shouldn’t you advise and warn me, Roma?” he asked, softly, going a little nearer her. “You know very well there is no, one in the world I should take advice from half so willingly. Why will you always misunderstand me?”
His tone was growing dangerously tender.
“Oh, silly Beauchamp!” said Roma to herself. Then looking up, “I am glad to hear it,” she observed, rather coldly. “Your have thoroughly acted up to the last piece of advice I gave you, have you not? You remember what it was—that night at the Dalrymples?”
As she spoke, Beauchamp, though looking down, felt conscious that her keen dark eyes were regarding him searchingly. He could not pretend not to understand her, little as he had been prepared for this embarrassing cross-examination, and to his intense annoyance he felt himself slightly change colour. It was very slightly, so slightly that no other eyes would have perceived it, but looking up again boldly to brave out this home-thrust, the ready words died on his lips; he saw that Roma was watching him with an expression not very unlike contempt.