Then Mrs. Devereux sat
deliberately down, and Chevenix braced himself.
"You said just now," the lady began, "to Miss Percival, that she was
mistress here. What did you mean by that, exactly?"
Chevenix sprang sideways to this flank attack. "Oh, you know, Mrs.
Devereux! you can't take a chap--literally--what?"
He wanted time; but she gave him none. "You must forgive an old woman of
the world--of a certain world. I come here--to a house which belonged to
Nevile's father, an old, old friend, and I find--installed--a young lady--
who does not dine--who is extremely capable. I am bewildered, naturally."
Chevenix's "I know, I know," and his friendly nods ran on as an
accompaniment.
"And then," said she, raising her voice, "I find that this young lady--and
you--are old friends. You speak of her--people--as if they were really--of
the sort which--as if she were--of the kind--whom--" It was impossible.
"Really," she said, "it's most unusual. I don't frankly know what I ought
to do."
Chevenix listened carefully to her truncated phrases, where what she did
not say was the most eloquent part of her discourse. He nodded freely and
sagely; he was conciliatory, but clear in opinion.
Pages:
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115