“You are candid, at any rate!” he said. Mr. Barton came into the room at that moment, full of apologies for being late. Immediately after, with the usual ceremony, the butler entered and pompously announced, “Dinner is served, sir.” How quickly they recognize the new master! Mr. Carruthers gave me his arm, and we walked slowly down the picture gallery to the banqueting hall, and there sat down at the small round table in the middle, that always looks like an island in a lake. I talked nicely at dinner. I was dignified and grave, and quite frank. Mr. Carruthers was not bored. The chef had outdone himself, hoping to be kept on. I never felt so excited in my life. [28] [28] I was apparently asleep under a big lamp, after dinner in the library—a book of silly poetry in my lap—when the door opened and he—Mr. Carruthers—came in alone, and walked up the room. I did not open my eyes. He looked for just a minute—how accurate I am! Then he said, “You are very pretty when asleep!” His voice was not caressing, or complimentary, merely as if the fact had forced this utterance. I allowed myself to wake without a start. “Was the ’47 port as good as you hoped?” I asked, sympathetically. He sat down. I had arranged my chair so that there was none other in its immediate neighbourhood. Thus he was some way off, and could realize my whole silhouette. “The ’47 port—oh yes!—but I am not going to talk of port. I want you to tell me a lot more about yourself, and your plans.” “I have no plans—except to see the world.” He picked up a book, and put it down again; he was not perfectly calm. [29] [29] “I don’t think I shall let you. I am more than ever convinced you ought to have some one to take care of you; you are not of the type that makes it altogether safe to roam about alone.”
Prev.
Back
Top