And next morning, sure enough, the demand for it comes. An early train removes Mr. Dubary Jones, and Sir George having dismissed him with the comparatively Christian observation that he wonders what Rupert can see in such a despicable little worm, and having added the still more Christian rider that he supposes all tastes are respectable, gladly changes the subject for the dreaded one—now better prepared for than it was last evening.
“So you saw Binning! Come into the study, and tell me all about him.”
She tells him all, repeats almost word for word the little talk—how little!—that had passed between them, keeping back for herself only the one tiny episode of the wood anemones. Sir George is perfectly indifferent to flowers, and could not enter into a sick man’s craving for their grace and perfume. Talk with her uncle has throughout her life meant judicious suppressions; yet this one small kept-back piece of the price of her land makes her feel like Ananias.
“He said much the same sort of thing to me,” is her hearer’s half-disappointed comment. “No doubt he will repeat it to Rupert to-day.”
“Is Rupert going to see him to-day?”
“I have made a point of it. I confess I rather wonder that the proposal did not emanate from himself! If the poor fellow has this idea in his head, that we shrink from him, we must do all we can to drive it out.”
Lavinia nods slightly. Difficulties loom vaguely ahead of her, born of this utterance, yet her heart feels suddenly light. Can it be because a vista of possible repetitions of yesterday open before her?
“And though I may not rate our society very highly,” pursues Sir George, with one of his scarce smiles, “I think it may, perhaps, compare not unfavourably with Féo’s.”
Lavinia turns to go, thinking her task ended, and relieved that it is over. But another awaits her.
“Stop!” says Sir George. “Why are you in such a hurry to run away? I have not half done with you yet.” There is great kindness, and the unwonted pleasure of being conscious that he is about to give pleasure in his voice, and in the gesture with which he draws towards him and opens one after another half a dozen obviously not new jewel-cases. “They have not seen the light for nearly twenty years,” he says, passing his hand with a movement that is almost a caress over the faded velvet of one of them. “I suppose the settings are old-fashioned, but I believe the stones are good; I know that the pearls are. Garrard took five years collecting them one by one! The—the person who last wore them was very proud of them.”