She’s getting up tomorrow. In point of fact, she could go any time, but Dr. Northy keeps making excuses. He has an idea that a spell of quiet rectory life would do her good.”
“He may be right. What would you say to keeping her for a time—as a winter P.G.?”
Bunny tipped the dirty water down the sink, dried her hands carefully, then turned to look at him.
“What have you got at the back of your mind, Brock?” she asked with reserve. “It did not strike me that you were particularly interested in the girl when you brought her here.”
“I wasn’t, but you must admit the situation that has arisen is worth a glance.”
“You can clear that up if you wish.”
“But would it be doing anyone a kindness? Wouldn’t it be better and more amusing to wean the child from her aunt’s notions and make her think things out for herself?”
Bunny came and stood on the bright rag rug before the fire. Although she took the woollen mittens from the pocket of her overall and automatically pulled them over her cold hands, she gave him at the same time the straight, appraising look he remembered from boyhood.
“Are you hoping to lighten the dullness of a west-country winter for yourself?” she demanded sternly, but he only raised his eyebrows in mock disapproval.
“Really, Bunny, is that nice?” he said. “In any case, Miss Sabina Lamb is scarcely a woman, though she may be turned nineteen, and I am a hardened bachelor of thirty- five.”
“You needn’t boast of it so smugly,” she said a little tartly. “For all your aversion to the married state, your life as far as women are concerned has not been entirely blameless.” “Possibly not, but you yourself frequently tell me that there
are other ways of fulfilment than climbing mountains.”
“Oh, you’re hopeless when you get in this mood. You know very well that I would never advocate casual affairs of the heart as ways of fulfilment.”
“Every little helps,” he said flippantly, then saw that he was beginning to distress her. “All right, my prim preceptress, I won’t tease you. Will you agree to what I suggest? I know I’ll have Northy’s approval.”
“And how will you reconcile such a proposal with Marthe and with the aunt?” she asked.
“That’s very simple. You have only to write to Madame explaining as much of the circumstances as you consider advisable, and I think you’ll have her agreeing to any arrangement.”
“Blackmail?”
“No, the truth. I’ll write myself if you like. Lucille Faivre will have every incentive to remain indefinitely at the Chateau Berger.”
“And what of her overtures to Rene Bergerac?”
“They can proceed with a greater sense of security.” She tucked a stray wisp of hair neatly under the net. She was tired and she was at a loss to know what really lay at the back of Brock’s mind. He had always been expert at talking in riddles.
“I don’t mind about Lucille Faivre,” she said wearily, “but I wouldn’t like that child to get hurt. I’ve taken a fondness for her.”
“Why should she get hurt? Her notion of Rene Bergerac is scarcely very romantic as it is. Don’t you consider she needs time to reflect without the ever-present naggings of those two women?”
“There is still Marthe to contend with, and I don’t really feel, Brock, I can put up with her much longer.” “We’ll find a way to dispose of Marthe,” said Brock impatiently. “Won’t you give the poor little devil a chance,
Bunny?”
“Well, I don’t know. I must sleep on it,” she said, but she knew she was wavering. Whatever doubts she had with regard to Brock’s own motives, she did agree that the girl needed a respite and, in the end, might not Brock be right?
“Will you regret things when your mood changes and the child, perhaps, gets in your way?” she asked, and he smiled at her a little cryptically.
“She won’t get in my way,” he said. “Besides, she likes mountains.”
Bunny studied his dark
“He may be right. What would you say to keeping her for a time—as a winter P.G.?”
Bunny tipped the dirty water down the sink, dried her hands carefully, then turned to look at him.
“What have you got at the back of your mind, Brock?” she asked with reserve. “It did not strike me that you were particularly interested in the girl when you brought her here.”
“I wasn’t, but you must admit the situation that has arisen is worth a glance.”
“You can clear that up if you wish.”
“But would it be doing anyone a kindness? Wouldn’t it be better and more amusing to wean the child from her aunt’s notions and make her think things out for herself?”
Bunny came and stood on the bright rag rug before the fire. Although she took the woollen mittens from the pocket of her overall and automatically pulled them over her cold hands, she gave him at the same time the straight, appraising look he remembered from boyhood.
“Are you hoping to lighten the dullness of a west-country winter for yourself?” she demanded sternly, but he only raised his eyebrows in mock disapproval.
“Really, Bunny, is that nice?” he said. “In any case, Miss Sabina Lamb is scarcely a woman, though she may be turned nineteen, and I am a hardened bachelor of thirty- five.”
“You needn’t boast of it so smugly,” she said a little tartly. “For all your aversion to the married state, your life as far as women are concerned has not been entirely blameless.” “Possibly not, but you yourself frequently tell me that there
are other ways of fulfilment than climbing mountains.”
“Oh, you’re hopeless when you get in this mood. You know very well that I would never advocate casual affairs of the heart as ways of fulfilment.”
“Every little helps,” he said flippantly, then saw that he was beginning to distress her. “All right, my prim preceptress, I won’t tease you. Will you agree to what I suggest? I know I’ll have Northy’s approval.”
“And how will you reconcile such a proposal with Marthe and with the aunt?” she asked.
“That’s very simple. You have only to write to Madame explaining as much of the circumstances as you consider advisable, and I think you’ll have her agreeing to any arrangement.”
“Blackmail?”
“No, the truth. I’ll write myself if you like. Lucille Faivre will have every incentive to remain indefinitely at the Chateau Berger.”
“And what of her overtures to Rene Bergerac?”
“They can proceed with a greater sense of security.” She tucked a stray wisp of hair neatly under the net. She was tired and she was at a loss to know what really lay at the back of Brock’s mind. He had always been expert at talking in riddles.
“I don’t mind about Lucille Faivre,” she said wearily, “but I wouldn’t like that child to get hurt. I’ve taken a fondness for her.”
“Why should she get hurt? Her notion of Rene Bergerac is scarcely very romantic as it is. Don’t you consider she needs time to reflect without the ever-present naggings of those two women?”
“There is still Marthe to contend with, and I don’t really feel, Brock, I can put up with her much longer.” “We’ll find a way to dispose of Marthe,” said Brock impatiently. “Won’t you give the poor little devil a chance,
Bunny?”
“Well, I don’t know. I must sleep on it,” she said, but she knew she was wavering. Whatever doubts she had with regard to Brock’s own motives, she did agree that the girl needed a respite and, in the end, might not Brock be right?
“Will you regret things when your mood changes and the child, perhaps, gets in your way?” she asked, and he smiled at her a little cryptically.
“She won’t get in my way,” he said. “Besides, she likes mountains.”
Bunny studied his dark
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