“I should scarcely think he was really affected,” said Philippa; “he is just rather rough. But certainly,” she went on, “the elder cousin is quite unusually good-looking.”
Evelyn gave a little laugh.
“What is amusing you?” said Philippa, rather sharply.
“Oh, nothing,” said Evelyn.
“When people answer ‘nothing’ in that way, it always means something,” said Philippa, sententiously. “You laughed at what I said, and I want to know why?”
“I didn’t—at least, not exactly. I was only thinking—now don’t be cross—how absurd it is! You admiring Mr Gresham, allowing, at any rate, that he made some impression upon you—for you are very critical, you know, Philippa—and he on his side entertaining me, whenever he can get round to the subject with his appreciation of your beauty and charms.”
Philippa reddened, and not altogether with gratification.
“That sort of thing is very common, Evelyn; I don’t like it. Besides which, it is incredible that the man should remember me so distinctly. We only met for one afternoon, and what chiefly impressed me about him was his unusual dearth of conversation. It forced me to talk, I remember—you know the hateful feeling of being tête-à-tête with any one, and we were tête-à-tête for some little time, in dead silence. No, Evelyn, he has found out one of your weak points, you unsuspicious little goose, not your weakest, but he couldn’t praise up Bonny and Vanda, as he has never seen them. You shouldn’t be so open to flattery.”
“But, indeed, it isn’t flattery,” said Evelyn; “he would be incapable of anything so coarse, and you should have a higher opinion of my taste and perception too. All he says is in the very nicest way, really showing that he saw you to be—well, something out of the common, which you certainly are.”
“All the same,” said Philippa, “I wish you would leave off talking about me while you are here, at all. It is very unwise.”