“It is a nuisance that it should have happened at this moment. My father will not be able to endure him; as I have often told you about him—he is like me, only more so!” Rupert smiles rather humorously, relieved at her acceptance of his news.
She gives a smile too; but there is a shudder under it—a shudder which recurs more than once during the dinner and evening that follow, when, faithful to her lifelong profession of buffer, she draws the conversation of Mr. Dubary Jones upon herself, to avert the catastrophe that must ensue if it is directed to Sir George. In a party of four it is no easy task to prevent the talk becoming general; but ably seconded by Rupert, and by the exercise of ceaseless vigilance, attention, and civility, Miss Carew succeeds in securing the couple of tête-à-têtes, by which only a thunderbolt can be warded off. But while kindly and graciously smiling, listening, and asking, Rupert’s descriptive phrase, “like me, only more so,” drips like melted lead upon her heart. Does she indeed see before her what Rupert will come to in the ten years by which his friend is richer than he? Is this his logical conclusion?—this little decadent, who is trying to fit his conversation to a hostess whom he suspects of being sporting?
“How delightful hunting must be!”
She assents, “Very.”
“And shooting! That must be so exciting!”
Again she acquiesces with creditable gravity, adding that salmon-fishing is considered by many people to be the most engrossing of sports.
For a moment he looks nonplussed, and at a loss for a suitable rejoinder; but quickly recovering himself, says brightly—
“Oh yes, it must be great fun, skipping from rock to rock.”
This evidence of how clearly he has grasped the nature of the amusement alluded to, finishes her for a while; but she presently recovers, as he has done, and for the rest of dinner they continue under the almost insuperable difficulties indicated, the class of conversation which he supposes suited to her capacity and tastes; nor does she care to undeceive him.
After all, contemptible and uncongenial as he is, and hideous as is the thought that the rudiments of him lie in Rupert, Lavinia has reason to be grateful to the translator of Verlaine. But for him she would have had to undergo a close interrogatory as to her visit of the afternoon. She catches herself up in mid-congratulation. Why should it be to undergo? Why should she mind retailing the little incidents which must be of equal interest to all three of them? What that is not good and touching is there to tell—whether it be the man’s affecting fear lest he should be unendurable in all their eyes, or the heroic patience with which he bears the cruel kindness of Féodorovna’s terrible ministrations? Yet she cannot help a feeling of discreditable relief that the tale which must be told is by the stranger’s presence deferred till next morning.