“What’s the matter, Rupert?” he said. “You look rather at war with the world. I fancy I caught the sound of my own name—have I done anything to ruffle his feathers, Miss Fitzmaurice?”
I smiled; indeed I was on the point of laughing outright, Rupert looked so cross.
“No,” I said, “not that I know of, except—the being yourself, and not somebody else, or rather not being in somebody else’s shoes at the present time.”
I am afraid my raillery was far from being oil on the waters of Rupert’s irritation. It was getting late; some of the guests had already left. Rupert got up with some murmured excuse and joined his mother at the other side of the room, whereupon Clarence took his place, so matters had fallen out luckily for me, though I had had no intention of driving Rupert away.
“Is he really annoyed at anything?” asked the elder brother.
“Oh, no!” I replied, “nothing of the slightest consequence. But I think he would like to be wire-puller to living puppets as well as to those of his own creation, sometimes.”
“I suppose there’s a touch of that about us all,” said Clarence, and though he spoke lightly, I think we both felt that the remark was rather curiously appropriate at the present juncture of the drama, of which we were longing to see the dénouement.
“Just at present,” I said half ruefully, “I am longing, as you know, to be told whether I should pull wires at all or not.”
“Yes, yes,” he said quickly, “I know. Don’t think I am forgetting about it. I am expecting letters to-morrow even. May I write to you? I am sorry to hear you are leaving us so soon. Will you tell me your address?”
I did so, understanding that he did not wish to apply to his mother for it.