Irene was in front; that young fellow--what had they nicknamed him--'The
Buccaneer?' looked precious hangdog there behind her; had got a flea in
his ear, he shouldn't wonder. Serve him right, taking her down all that
way to look at the house! The proper place to look at a house from was
the lawn.
They saw him. He extended his arm, and moved it spasmodically to
encourage them. But they had stopped. What were they standing there for,
talking--talking? They came on again. She had been, giving him a rub, he
had not the least doubt of it, and no wonder, over a house like that--a
great ugly thing, not the sort of house he was accustomed to.
He looked intently at their faces, with his pale, immovable stare. That
young man looked very queer!
"You'll never make anything of this!" he said tartly, pointing at the
mansion;--"too newfangled!"
Bosinney gazed at him as though he had not heard; and Swithin afterwards
described him to Aunt Hester as "an extravagant sort of fellow very odd
way of looking at you--a bumpy beggar!"
What gave rise to this sudden piece of psychology he did not state;
possibly Bosinney's, prominent forehead and cheekbones and chin, or
something hungry in his face, which quarrelled with Swithin's conception
of the calm satiety that should characterize the perfect gentleman.
He brightened up at the mention of tea. He had a contempt for tea--his
brother Jolyon had been in tea; made a lot of money by it--but he was
so thirsty, and had such a taste in his mouth, that he was prepared to
drink anything. He longed to inform Irene of the taste in his mouth--she
was so sympathetic--but it would not be a distinguished thing to do; he
rolled his tongue round, and faintly smacked it against his palate.
In a far corner of the tent Adolf was bending his cat-like moustaches
over a kettle. He left it at once to draw the cork of a pint-bottle of
champagne. Swithin smiled, and, nodding at Bosinney, said: "Why, you're
quite a Monte Cristo!" This celebrated novel--one of the half-dozen he
had read--had produced an extraordinary impression on his mind.
Taking his glass from the table, he held it away from him to scrutinize
the colour; thirsty as he was, it was not likely that he was going to
drink trash! Then, placing it to his lips, he took a sip.
"A very nice wine," he said at last, passing it before his nose; "not
the equal of my Heidsieck!"
It was at this moment that the idea came to him which he afterwards
imparted at Timothy's in this nutshell: "I shouldn't wonder a bit if
that architect chap were sweet upon Mrs. Soames!"