‘You are almost as impersonal as one of those Buddhist saints that my Uncle Robert has lived with,’ he replied. ‘You make one feel cold.’
Gundred, resolved in her attitude, would take no notice of his renewed attack. ‘Your Uncle Robert,’ she said, ‘have I heard of him? Oh yes; he is that brother of your father’s who ran away to Japan so many years ago and became a Buddhist himself, poor man, didn’t he? Will he ever come back to England?’
‘Not if he’s as wise as he sounds. His life out there seems to be almost perfect contentment.’
‘How strange that is—yes? Well, I have got odd relations, too, in out-of-the-way corners of the world, you know. There’s poor papa’s sister, Isabel Darrell, away in Australia, with a daughter. I really rather hope they will never come home. Colonial relations are apt to be so truly dreadful. And now, Kingston dear, what I came to see you about to-day is this. Have you any very strong ideas as to the honeymoon? Because papa and Uncle Henry and Aunt Agnes are all very anxious that we should go to Brakelond. And I do think there is something rather nice in the idea. After all, I suppose it will be our place some day, and our children’s after us. In a way it is my wedding-present to you. Don’t you think we might begin our married life there? Uncle Henry won’t be in our way at all. He is kept in a wing right apart from the rest of the Castle, and the building is so enormous that you might put up twenty people there, and no one need have any notion that there was anyone in the place besides himself.’
‘Yes,’ replied Kingston, warming to the prospect; ‘it sounds a delightful plan. I was wondering when we could go to Brakelond. Hugh Frazer did say something about lending us his place, but I can easily explain. Luckily, all my Dadd relations are out of the reckoning, so there is no one to claim any tiresome rights. By all means let us go to Brakelond. It must be the most gorgeous old place. Haven’t they still got the room where Queen Isabel sat and worked?’
‘Yes, horrid woman!’ said Gundred tersely. ‘I don’t like to talk about her. I can scarcely believe she was my ancestress.’
‘But splendid, Gundred—splendid and tragic and romantic.’
Gundred’s firm, pale lips tightened into a line of disapproval.
‘I never can see why wicked people are especially splendid or tragic or romantic,’ she said. ‘Goodness is so much nicer—yes?’
‘Perhaps it is,’ replied Kingston, after a pause, ‘but not always so interesting.’