“No, not long. We are going down to the country almost immediately. I told you my father and Mr. Mortimer had taken a house there.”
“You will enjoy that.”
“I’m sure I shall. Mr. Mortimer’s son Bream will be there. That will be nice.”
“Why?” said Sam, backsliding.
There was a pause.
“He isn’t rude and ridiculous, eh?” said Sam gruffly.
“Oh, no. His manners are perfect, and he has such a natural dignity,” she went on, looking affectionately across the table at the heir of the Mortimers, who, finding Mr. Bennett’s medical confidences a trifle fatiguing, was yawning broadly, and absently balancing his wine glass on a fork.
“Besides,” said Billie in a soft and dreamy voice, “we are engaged to be married!”
§ 3
Sam didn’t care, of course. We, who have had the privilege of a glimpse into his iron soul, know that. He was not in the least upset by the news—just surprised. He happened to be raising his glass at the moment, and he registered a certain amount of restrained emotion by snapping the stem in half and shooting the contents over the tablecloth: but that was all.