“What did you think of him?” asked Braybrooke.
As he put the question he was aware that he was being far from subtle. The vision in the distance—now eating plum cake, but still very observant—upset his nervous system and deprived him almost entirely of his usual savoir faire.
“He seems quite a nice sort of boy,” said Miss Van Tuyn, still looking rather coldly inquisitive, as if she were secretly puzzled but intended to emerge into complete understanding before she had done with Braybrooke. “His Foreign Office manner is rather against him. But perhaps some day he’ll grow out of that—unless it becomes accentuated.”
“If you knew him better I feel sure you would like him. He had no reservations about you—none at all. But, then, how could he have?”
“Well, at any rate I haven’t got the Foreign Office manner.”
“No, indeed!” said Braybrooke, managing a laugh that just indicated his appreciation of the remark as an excellent little joke. “But it really means nothing.”
“That’s a pity. One’s manner should always have a meaning of some kind. Otherwise it is an absolute drawback to one’s personality.”
“That is perhaps a fault of the Englishman. But we must remember that still waters run deep.”
“Do you think so? But if they don’t run at all?”
“How do you mean?”