She was mistaken. It would be great fun.
On the way thither I entertained her blandly on the subject of unmarried life. I pointed out to her the advantages of a brother and sister living happily together, as, say, in our own case. I argued on the holy bonds of kinship, and congratulated her on having a brother who would devote the whole of his life to making her comfortable. How happy we were!
Carrie moved uneasily in her seat. She endeavoured to change the subject. Her conscience wrought within her—she was a guilty traitor, and deceiving the kindest of brothers. Had she been less in love, she might have suspected something, as I continued in the same strain; but such is not the way of youth. Her arts might have been transparent to me for months and months, yet she would at last break the great secret with most delicious gentleness, in stammers and blushes, and I would show a dramatic surprise and shock. We see other people’s progress, but our own love affairs are always unguessed.
It was a great relief to Carrie when we arrived at the Bassishaws’. The strain was getting embarrassing. A straight military young figure had evidently been on the look-out for our conveyance, for he made several false starts, and almost supplanted the more ceremonious reception due from his mother. This little formality through, he pounced on us at once.
“How d’ye do, Miss Butterfield? Do, Butterfield?” he said warmly. “So glad you’ve come.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “I was rather afraid I’d have to let Carrie come alone, but I managed to arrange it.”
A shade of regret was visible in his eyes, but he bore it nicely. He is “white,” as Carmichael would have said.
“Of course,” he said, “Miss Butterfield would have been all right, you know, but I’m glad you came too.”
I believe he was. Saying so seemed to make him so.
We walked up the garden, I in the middle. Carrie received an occasional bow, but we didn’t know many people there. This was young Bassishaw’s excuse for conducting us personally, and he pointed out various people as “men you ought to know, you know, Butterfield.” I betrayed no great desire for the acquaintanceship. I was not to be shaken off.