Part 14 (2/2)
”You think they would not be pleased to see me?” she flashed.
”They are ridiculously old-fas.h.i.+oned,” he said. ”Not your type at all.”
”But I love curiosities,” she returned, smiling now. ”I am not absolutely set upon any type. All human beings are a delightful study.
If you know them, you must bring them to see me then some day.”
But at this John Derringham laughed outright.
”If you could picture them, you would laugh, too,” he said. ”There is someone, though, whom I do want you to know, who lives close here--my old Oxford professor of Greek, Arnold Carlyon. He is a study who will repay you. The most whimsical cynic, as well as one of the greatest scholars I have ever come across in my life. I promised him to-day that I would persuade you to let me take you to see him.”
”How enchanting,” she replied with enthusiasm. ”And we must make him come here. When shall we go? To-morrow?”
”No, I said Monday or Tuesday--with your permission,” and he bent over her with caressing homage.
”Of course--when you will. That, then, is where you were this morning.
But how did you get back through the park?” she asked. ”There is no opening at that side whatever. It is all blocked by the wicked La Sarthe Chase.”
”I came round the edge,” he said, and felt annoyed--he hated lying--”and then turned upwards. I wanted to see the boundaries.”
”I hate boundaries,” she laughed. ”I always want to overstep them.”
”There is the chance of being caught in snares.”
”Which adds to the excitement,” and she allowed her radiant eyes to seek his with a challenge.
He was not slow to take it up.
”Enchantress,” he whispered softly, ”it is you whose charm lays snares for men. You have no fear of falling into them yourself.”
She rippled a low laugh of satisfaction. And, having tamed her lion, she now suggested it was time to go in to luncheon.
CHAPTER XII
Arabella Clinker took Sunday afternoons generally to write a long letter to her mother, and Good Friday seemed almost a Sunday, so she went up to her room from force of habit. But first she looked up some facts in the countless books of reference she kept always by her. Mrs. Cricklander had skated over some very thin ice at luncheon upon a cla.s.sical subject, when talking to the distinguished Mr. Derringham, and she must be warned and primed up before dinner. Arabella had herself averted a catastrophe and dexterously turned the conversation in the nick of time. Mrs.
Cricklander had a peculiarly uncla.s.sical brain, and found learning statistics about ancient philosophies and the names of mythological personages the most difficult of all. Fortunately in these days, even among the most polished, this special branch of cultivation was rather old-fas.h.i.+oned, Miss Clinker reflected, but still, as Mr. Derringham seemed determined to wander along this line (Arabella had unconsciously appropriated some apt Americanisms during her three years of bondage), she must be loyal and not allow her employer to commit any blunders. So she got her facts crystallized, or ”tabloided,” as Mrs. Cricklander would mentally have characterized the process, and then she began her letter to her parent. Mrs. Clinker, an Irishwoman and the widow of a learned Dean, understood a number of things, and was clear-headed and humorous, for all her seventy years, and these pa.s.sages in her daughter's letter amused her.
We are entertaining a number of distinguished visitors, and among them Mr. John Derringham, the Under Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. He is a most interesting personality, as perfectly sure of what he wants in life as is M. E. (M. E. stood for ”My Employer”--names were invidious). They would be a perfect match, each as selfish as the other, I should say. He is really very cultivated, and believes her to be so, too. She has not made a single mistake as yet, but frightened me at luncheon a little. I must try and get her to keep him off cla.s.sical subjects. She intends to marry him--and then she will not require me, I suppose; or rather, I do not think he would permit her to keep me. If it came to a measure of wills, he would win, I think--at first, at least--but she could wear away a stone in the end, as you know. The arranging of this place is still amusing her, so she may decide to spend a good deal of time here. She closed her mouth with that firm snap this morning that I have described to you often, and said that it was going to be her delight to make them put themselves out and come so far away from London for her. ”Them,” for the moment, are Mr. Derringham and Mr.
Hanbury-Green, almost a Socialist person, who is on the other side--very brilliantly clever but with a c.o.c.kney accent in one or two words. M. E. does not notice this, of course. Mr. H-G. is in love with her--Mr. D. is not, but she is determined that he shall be. I do not know if he intends to marry her. He is making up his mind, I think, therefore I must be doubly careful not to allow her to commit any mistakes, because if she did it would certainly estrange him, and as to keep her free is so much to our advantage, I feel I must be extra careful in doing my duty.
Arabella was a person of scrupulous honor.
She then proceeded to describe the party, and concluded with,
There is one American girl I like very much--perfectly natural and bubbling with spirits, saying aloud everything she thinks, really well educated and taking so much outdoor exercise that she has not yet begun to have the nervous attacks that are such a distressing feature of so many of her countrywomen. I am told it is their climate. M. E. says it is because the men out there have always let them have their own way. I should think so much smoking has something to do with it.
<script>