I can't make him out: he's lovely, but he's queer, so
solemn at times, like an owl in daylight. I'm sure he's well
brought up. I wonder why he went into the church: he ought to have
been a gentleman."
"But is he not a gentleman?
"Oh, yes, of course he's a gentleman, but you know what I mean."
"No, I don't."
"There, now, you are one of those horrid creatures, I know you are,
who never WILL understand, and do it on purpose. It is so
aggravating."
"Well, but you said he was not a gentleman, and yet that he was a
gentleman."
"You ARE provoking. I say he is a gentleman--but don't some
gentlemen keep a carriage?--and his father is in business. Isn't
that plain? You know all about it as well as I do."
"I still do not quite comprehend."
Catharine took a little pleasure in forcing people to be definite,
and Miss Arden invariably fell back on "you understand" whenever she
herself did not understand. In fact, in exact proportion to her own
inability to make herself clear to herself, did she always insist
that she was clear to other people.
"I cannot help it if you don't comprehend. He's lovely, and I adore
him."
Next morning, being Sunday, the Limes was, if possible, still more
irreproachable; the noise of the household was more subdued; the
passions appeared more utterly extinguished, and any indifferent
observer would have said that from the Misses Ponsonby down to the
scullery-maid, a big jug had been emptied on every spark of illegal
fire, and blood was toast and water.
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