"It is a fault on the right side."
"Nonsense; I am tired of arguing the point with him. What has money to do in the case? My husband might be as rich as Croesus, or as poor as a church-mouse, but if I liked him I would stick to him all the same. It is wrong pride in a man to let anything stand in the way if he likes a woman; and Langley agrees with me."
"Does she?"
"Yes; she talks on these sort of subjects so nicely; she is not a bit hard, as Garth is sometimes. He hates flirting and nonsense, and scolds me dreadfully if I make myself too amiable to any masculine individual; but Langley always takes my part, and says I am only a child; oh, she is a darling, or a saint, as Mr. Logan says."
"I am sure she is nice," returned Queenie, throwing a little enthusiasm into her voice. Cathy's frankness was embarrassing. That first evening she would have found it impossible to form any true opinion of Miss Clayton; she was attracted and yet repelled by her, fascinated oddly by her voice and manner, and yet pained by a weariness and suppression for which there seemed no words. Was she unhappy or only tired? was her life simply too monotonous for her? had she wider yearnings that stretched out further, and were still unsatisfied? had responsibility and over-much thought for others traced those worn lines, and wrinkled the smooth forehead? Queenie found herself indulging in all manner of conjectures before the evening was over. That she was a woman infinitely loved and respected was plainly evident. Langley's opinion, Langley's sympathy, were always claimed, and never in vain; the same patient attention, the same ready help, were given to all. She talked largely and well, and with a certain originality that made her an interesting companion; and there was a breadth and large-mindedness about her views that appealed strongly to Queenie's admiration.
"I do like her; I am sure I shall like her," she repeated for the third time, when Cathy had finished a long and animated harangue on her sister's merits. Cathy never stinted her praise; she spread it richly for those she loved, with a warmth of girlish hyperbole, and a generous glazing-over of manifest defects, that was rather refreshing in this censorious age.
"What was I saying? Hush! there is Garth; we must go down now," as a sudden melodious whistle sounded from below, at once deftly and sweetly answered by Cathy. "That means tea is ready, and his highness is hungry; come, we must not keep th' maister waiting."
The long low-ceiled dining-room looked snug and home-like as they entered. A tempting meal was spread for the travellers; a basket of roses and ferns garnished the table; some canaries sang in the window. Ted Clayton's long figure lounged in a rocking-chair; Emmie was standing beside him, looking like a little Puritan girl in her grey frock and close-bordered cap, making friends with a white Maltese terrier; a tall young man in a rough tweed coat leant over the back of his chair.
"Miss Marriott, this is my brother Garth," said Cathy, with an accent of pride in her voice, and Garth came forward with a pleasant smile.
What a good, thoughtful face it was; certainly Cathy had not exaggerated. He was a handsome, a very handsome, man; the chin was strongly moulded, and the mouth closed firmly, perhaps a trifle too firmly, under the dark moustache, but the blue-grey eyes had an honest kindly gleam in them; the strong brown hand grasped Queenie's with open-hearted friendliness.