Hah!
Swithin awoke; virtue had gone out of him.
He had a taste in his mouth.
Where was he?
Damme!
He had been asleep!
He had dreamed something about a new soup, with a taste of mint in it.
Those young people—where had they got to?
His left leg had pins and needles.
"Adolf!"
The rascal was not there; the rascal was asleep somewhere.
He stood up, tall, square, bulky in his fur, looking anxiously down over the fields, and presently he saw them coming.
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!"
And from this moment his pale, round eyes never ceased to bulge with the interest of his discovery.
"The fellow," he said to Mrs. Septimus, "follows her about with his eyes like a dog—the bumpy beggar!
I don't wonder at it—she's a very charming woman, and, I should say, the pink of discretion!"
A vague consciousness of perfume caging about Irene, like that from a flower with half-closed petals and a passionate heart, moved him to the creation of this image.
"But I wasn't sure of it," he said, "till I saw him pick up her handkerchief."
Mrs. Small's eyes boiled with excitement.
"And did he give it her back?" she asked.
"Give it back?" said Swithin:
"I saw him slobber on it when he thought I wasn't looking!"
Mrs. Small gasped—too interested to speak.
"But she gave him no encouragement," went on Swithin; he stopped, and stared for a minute or two in the way that alarmed Aunt Hester so—he had suddenly recollected that, as they were starting back in the phaeton, she had given Bosinney her hand a second time, and let it stay there too....