“I believe in being a man among men,” he blew over Sir John, who was beginning to hate him, though he had chosen him out of twenty-one applicants—“that’s what you learnt in France—no fuss, no frills, just playing the game.”
“You’d better have a few words with my youngest son,” said Sir John, resolving to give him a hard nut to crack—“he’s turned what used to be called a Puseyite in my young days, but is now called a Catholic, I believe.”
“A Zanzibarbarian—what? Oh, he’ll grow out of that. Boys often get it when they’re young.”
“And stay young all their lives if they keep it,” said Stella—“I’m glad Gervase will be always young.”
The Vicar gave her a look of breezy disapproval. Peter was vexed too—not because Stella had butted into the conversation and thrown her opinion across the room, but because she had gone out of her way to interfere on behalf of Gervase. It was really rather obvious ... one couldn’t help noticing ... and in bad taste, too, considering Peter was there.
“Here he is,” said Sir John, as the Ford back-fired a volley in the drive—“you can start on him now.”
But Gervase was hungry and wanted his tea. He sat down beside his mother and Rose, so that he could have a plate squarely set on the table instead of balancing precarious slices of cake in his saucer. Peter watched him in a manner which he hoped was guarded. There was no sign of any special intelligence between him and Stella—Gervase had included her in his general salutation, which he had specialised only in the case of the Vicar and his wife. At first this reassured Peter, but after a while he realised that it was not altogether a reassuring sign—Gervase should have greeted Stella more as a stranger, shaken hands with her as he had shaken hands with the strangers, instead of including her in the family wave and grin. They must be on very good terms—familiar terms....
Stella rose to go.
“Have you got the car?” asked Gervase.
“No—Father’s gone over to Dallington in her.”