“Well, Rol?” said Carrie. She had evidently not noticed my state. She
didn’t know I knew.
“Let me think,” I replied, “let me think.”
I was not allowed to think; a tap at the door roused me, and two
visitors were announced. In came Loring Chatterton, and the young
brother-in-law himself. I had to admit he was a not unprepossessing
young warrior.
“How do you do, Miss Butterfield?” came simultaneously from my two
guests, while Carrie rose, putting aside her manuscript. I greeted them
from my chair.
“I am afraid we interrupt your writing, Miss Butterfield,” said Loring,
sitting down.
“Oh no, Mr. Chatterton,” Caroline replied. “As a matter of fact I was
rather stuck when you came in.”
“Yes, Loring,” I interposed, “Carrie was rather stuck when you came in.
Perhaps we shall be able to help her, eh, Bassishaw?”
“Delighted,” replied Bassishaw; “but I’m afraid, do you know, that I
haven’t much of a head on me for that sort of thing, Miss Butterfield.”
“Rollo----” began Carrie.
“Oh, he’ll do, Carrie,” I replied. “Caroline wants to know, Bassishaw,
what a young man, good, clever, and--let me see--was he noble, Carrie?
Yes, I believe he was noble, and--a brilliant talker”--(I had him
there)--“a brilliant talker, would say after dinner about the girl he
thought he loved.”
Carrie was helpless. I had not given her away, and she did not dare to
protest for fear of doing so herself. She had a secret--I also had a
secret. I would keep the case strictly hypothetical.
“Well, Miss Butterfield,” began the hero who was thirsting to do some
brave deed, “I’m hanged, do you know, if I know what he’d say. He’d talk
a lot of piffle, wouldn’t he--oh, but he’s a brilliant sort of chap.
He’d--oh, hang it, Loring, what would he say? I don’t know.”
I chuckled softly. I didn’t want to hear Loring; I wanted to hear the
brilliant talker. It was for Carrie’s benefit.
“But if he really loved her,” I said, “and his eloquence came out in a
torrent?”
“Oh, I see. Well, I expect he’d say she was a confounded nice girl--or
something--pretty and all that, you know--and he’d row any chap who said
she wasn’t; don’t you think, eh? But why the deuce should he say
anything?”
Bassishaw was coming out of it with more credit than I thought. I
laughed, and even Carrie had to laugh too.
“I think,” said Chatterton, “that’s about as much as he could say,
unless he were an ass. I can’t imagine his saying much if you were
there, Rollo.”
“No,” said Bassishaw. “You _are_ a mischievous sort of Johnny, you know,
Butterfield. You’re deuced hard on young chaps; you guy them awfully,
you know. I expect you’ve forgotten all that.”
Thus unconsciously, was Bassishaw revenged. I was hard on young chaps. I
had forgotten, you know. I was an old fossil, or something. But I had a
sister, deuced nice girl, pretty, and all that. You have to keep in with
Johnnies like that, you know.
One thing I must know. Did this plain-spoken young man of the sword care
for Carrie? This was soon evident from his conciliatory manner toward
me. No one ever goes out of the way to consider me unless he wants
something. Bassishaw was most attentive.
“By the way, Butterfield,” he said after a while, “are you engaged for
Tuesday afternoon? Because if you’re not, do you know, my folks are
giving a sort of garden-party, or something. There’ll be lots of people
of your sort”--(my sort!)--“coming--clever, and all that, you know; I
thought you might care to come. I’ll get them to ask you, if you like.
And Miss Butterfield, too; Chatterton here is coming, and he’ll look
after you, you know, Butterfield. What do you say?”