He came in with nothing in his face from which his mind could be divined, looking just as usual, having come back from that “look-in” at his club, which was one of the habits of his widowed life, formed before Madeline had grown up to bear him company. He said the night was cold, and gave a quite unnecessary poke to the blazing fire, and sat down in his usual chair. Not till he had gone through all these manœuvres and stretched out his long limbs for a minute or two in enjoyment of the blaze, did he speak. “You have had young Burton with you again, I see,” was his utterance when at last he spoke.
“Of course, papa. I had no more than a peep of him before.”
“Well,” said Mr Thursley, with a laugh, “a peep of him would have sufficed for me. I suppose he was telling you all about America?”
“Every young man nowadays thinks he can fathom a new country with a glance. And what did he think of the Yankees, your young man?”
“Oh, of course, papa, he gives a very different account from that of the old rough time when we thought all Americans Yankees. Of course he likes some things and dislikes others--as one does in every new place.”
“You’re all so deuced philosophical nowadays--not so much as a good honest prejudice to be met with,” said the father. “Well, and any more? How did he like their business ways?”
“From what I could glean, not at all, papa; but we had other things to talk about.”
“Oh, to be sure; other things before which the aspect of a great country dwindles into nothing.”
“Not that,” said Madeline, faltering a little, “but of course more important personally to ourselves.”
“That is quite true, my dear; and I oughtn’t to say a word. Of course it’s not so pleasant to me as to you; I needn’t say I’ll miss you,--neither need I say that nothing could make me stand in your way. I suppose you’ve been settling everything?”
“We should not have been so hasty in any circumstances,” she said, with a blush. “But as it happens, we couldn’t--settle anything.”
“I don’t know what you will think,” said Madeline, doubtfully. “I am a little disturbed myself. Gervase has had a great deal of time to think it all over.”
Her father, who had been lying back in his chair, the embodiment of luxurious repose, in the glow of the firelight, here sat up abruptly, with a start of indignation. “What!” he cried; “do you mean to tell me that the fellow--has thought better of----”