What on earth had made the strange old fellow
take such an odd fancy to him? He had had singularly little "spoiling" in
his orphaned life so far, except occasionally from "Uncle Mackworth." The
experience was disturbing, yet certainly not disagreeable.
He must of course stay on for a while, now that such extraordinary pains
had been taken for his comfort. It would be nothing less than sheer
ingratitude were he not to do so. At the same time, his temperament was
cautious; he was no green youngster; and he could not but ask himself,
given Melrose's character and reputation, what ulterior motive there
might be behind a generosity so eccentric.
Meanwhile Melrose, in high spirits, and full of complaisance, now that
the hated Undershaw had departed, walked up and down as usual, talking
and smoking. It was evident that the whole process of unpacking his
treasures had put him in a glow of excitement. The sudden interruption of
habit had acted with stimulating power, his mind, like his home, had
shaken off some of its dust. He talked about the pictures and furniture
he had unearthed; the Latour pastels, the Gobelins in the gallery;
rambling through scenes and incidents of the past, in a vivacious,
egotistical monologue, which kept Faversham amused.
In the middle of it, however, he stopped abruptly, eying his guest.
"Can you write yet?"
"Pretty well. My arm's rather stiff."
"Make your nurse write some notes for you. That man--Undershaw--says you
must have some society--invite some people.
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