Harry was on the verge of flying out again, but he remembered the latch of the garden-door, and refrained.
“I know you are mistaken,” he said, “you can’t think how glad she was to see me yesterday.”
“I don’t doubt that,” replied the other dryly.
“But why do you doubt her liking me? I am not such a brute that no girl could look at me; I dare say I am no beauty, but, after all, I am neither lame nor a fright, nor hump-backed, nor crooked, nor squint-eyed, am I?”
Llewellyn laughed outright. “Hardly. But she’s a nobody, and you’re somebody, d’you see, Harry.”
“I did not know you cared about those sort of things,” remarked his brother scornfully.
“I’m not sure that I should if she were the right kind of girl. But I’m sure she isn’t. She thinks it would be a fine thing to be Mrs. Fenton, and I have no doubt she fancies you have lots of money, because you look smart and all that—she doesn’t understand how hard-up we are. I could guess that she was thinking about it that day on the coach.”
Harry was rather impressed.
“Of course it’s a grand thing for her having you dangling about; girls like that sort of thing, I know. But I wouldn’t if I were you.”
“One can’t look at any one else when she’s there,” sighed the other.