“I know that,” said Philip. “I’m not going for pleasure. I am thinking of taking up my quarters at Grimswell for a while. The house there is vacant now, you know, and my grandmother thinks it a duty for me to live on the spot and look after things a little.”
Madelene’s eyes lighted up.
“I am so glad,” she said. “I quite agree with Aunt Anna.”
“I thought you would,” said Philip, “and so would never mind who. I can’t say I exactly see it myself—things are very fairly managed there—but still. I’m the sort of fellow to make a martyr of myself to duty, you know.”
Ermine glanced at him as he stood there lazily leaning against the tree—handsome, sunny and sweet-tempered, with a half mischievous, half deprecating smile on his lips, and a kindly light in his long-shaped dark eyes.
“You look like it,” she said with good-natured contempt.
“But to return to our—” began Philip.
“Stop,” cried Ermine, “you are not to say ‘muttons,’ and I feel you are going to. It is so silly.”
“Really,” Philip remonstrated. “Maddie,” and he turned to Miss St Quentin appealingly, “don’t you think she is too bad? Bullying me not only for my taken-for-granted selfishness but for expressions offensive to her ladyship’s fastidious taste which she fancies I might be going to use.”
“My dear Philip, you certainly have a great deal of energy—and—breath to spare this hot afternoon,” said Ermine, leaning back as if exhausted on her seat, “I know you can talk—you’ve never given us any reason to doubt it, but I don’t think I ever heard you rattle on quite as indefatigably as to-day. One can’t get a word in.”