"I felt I disliked him at first," she said, presently. "But he is
improved. He can talk well, I should think. I suppose he is always
in clever society?"
"I suppose so."
"And why doesn't he invite you to London, and take you to see
people?"
"Oh, he knows me better than that!" replied Ivy, with a laugh.
Whilst the girls talked thus, Eustace Glazzard and his brother were
also in confidential chat. They had gone to the library and made
themselves comfortable with cigars--a cellaret and glasses
standing within reach. The rooms at Highmead gave evidence of
neglect. Guests were seldom entertained; the servants were few, and
not well looked after.
"She has, I dare say, thirty thousand," William Glazzard was saying,
with an air of indifference. "I suppose she'll marry some parson.
Let us hope it's one of the fifty-pound curates."
"Deep in the old slough?"
"Hopelessly--or Ivy wouldn't be so thick with her."
When he had spoken, William turned with an expressive smile.
"Still, who knows? I rather like the girl. She has no humbug about
her--no pretence, that's to say. You see how she dresses."
"A bad sign, I'm afraid."
"Well, no, not in this case, I think. Her home accounts for it. That
old ass, Mumbray, and his wife make things pretty sour for her, as
the Germans say; at least, I guess so."
"I don't dislike her appearance--intelligent at bottom, I should
imagine.
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