_
I was down in the library, innocently reading a book, when Mr. Carruthers
came in. He looked even better in evening dress, but he appeared
ill-tempered, and no doubt found the situation unpleasant.
"Is not this a beautiful house?" I said, in a velvet voice, to break the
awkward silence, and show him I did not share his unease. "You had not
seen it before, for ages, had you?"
"Not since I was a boy," he answered, trying to be polite. "My aunt
quarrelled with my father--she was the direct heiress of all this--and
married her cousin, my father's younger brother--but you know the family
history, of course----"
"Yes."
"They hated each other, she and my father."
"Mrs. Carruthers hated all her relations," I said, demurely.
"Myself among them?"
"Yes," I said, slowly, and bent forward so that the lamplight should fall
upon my hair. "She said you were too much like herself in character for
you ever to be friends."
"Is that a compliment?" he asked, and there was a twinkle in his eye.
"We must speak no ill of the dead," I said, evasively.
He looked slightly annoyed--as much as these diplomats ever let themselves
look anything.
"You are right," he said. "Let her rest in peace."
There was silence for a moment.
"What are you going to do with your life now?" he asked, presently.
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