On the second, he had called to offer them a key
which would admit their pony-carriage to some of the private drives of
the park, wild enchanted ways which led up to the very eastern heart of
Blencathra. That was not quite so successful, because both Lydia and her
mother were out, and his call had been made chiefly on Susan, who had
been even queerer than usual. After taking the key, she had let it fall
absently into a waste-paper basket, while she talked to him about Ibsen;
and he had been forced to rescue it himself, lest Lydia should never know
of his visit. On all other occasions he had found Lydia, and she had been
charming--always charming--but as light and inaccessible as mountain
birds. He had been allowed to see the drawing she was now busy on--the
ravines of Blencathra, caught sideways through a haze of light, edge
beyond edge, distance behind distance; a brave attempt on the artist's
part at poetic breadth and selection. She had been much worried about the
"values," whatever they might be. "They're quite vilely wrong!" she had
said, impatiently. "And I don't know how to get them right." And all he
could do was to stand like an oaf and ask her to explain. Nor could he
ignore the fact--so new and strange to a princeling!--that her
perplexities were more interesting to her than his visit.
Yet of course Tatham had his own natural conceit of himself, like any
normal young man, in the first bloom of prosperous life. He was
accustomed to be smiled on; to find his pleasure consulted, and his
company welcome, whether as the young master of Duddon, or as a comrade
among his equals of either sex.
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