But circumstances did give him an opportunity of speaking to Mr. Gibson. On the Wednesday afternoon both he and Mr. Gibson were invited to drink tea at Mrs. French’s house on that evening. Such invitations at Exeter were wont to be given at short dates, and both the gentlemen had said that they would go. Then Arabella French had called in the Close and had asked Miss Stanbury and Dorothy. It was well understood by Arabella that Miss Stanbury herself would not drink tea at Heavitree. And it may be that Dorothy’s company was not in truth desired. The ladies both declined. “Don’t you stay at home for me, my dear,” Miss Stanbury said to her niece. But Dorothy had not been out without her aunt since she had been at Exeter, and understood perfectly that it would not be wise to commence the practice at the house of the Frenches. “Mr. Brooke is coming, Miss Stanbury; and Mr. Gibson,” Miss French said. And Miss Stanbury had thought that there was some triumph in her tone. “Mr. Brooke can go where he pleases, my dear,” Miss Stanbury replied. “And as for Mr. Gibson, I am not his keeper.” The tone in which Miss Stanbury spoke would have implied great imprudence, had not the two ladies understood each other so thoroughly, and had not each known that it was so.
There was the accustomed set of people in Mrs. French’s drawing-room;—the Crumbies, and the Wrights, and the Apjohns. And Mrs. MacHugh came also—knowing that there would be a rubber. “Their naked shoulders don’t hurt me,” Mrs. MacHugh said, when her friend almost scolded her for going to the house. “I’m not a young man. I don’t care what they do to themselves.” “You might say as much if they went naked altogether,” Miss Stanbury had replied in anger. “If nobody else complained, I shouldn’t,” said Mrs. MacHugh. Mrs. MacHugh got her rubber; and as she had gone for her rubber, on a distinct promise that there should be a rubber, and as there was a rubber, she felt that she had no right to say ill-natured things. “What does it matter to me,” said Mrs. MacHugh, “how nasty she is? She’s not going to be my wife.” “Ugh!” exclaimed Miss Stanbury, shaking her head both in anger and disgust.
Camilla French was by no means so bad as she was painted by Miss Stanbury, and Brooke Burgess rather liked her than otherwise. And it seemed to him that Mr. Gibson did not at all dislike Arabella, and felt no repugnance at either the lady’s noddle or shoulders now that he was removed from Miss Stanbury’s influence. It was clear enough also that Arabella had not given up the attempt, although she must have admitted to herself that the claims of Dorothy Stanbury were very strong. On this evening it seemed to have been specially permitted to Arabella, who was the elder sister, to take into her own hands the management of the case. Beholders of the game had hitherto declared that Mr. Gibson’s safety was secured by the constant coupling of the sisters. Neither would allow the other to hunt alone. But a common sense of the common danger had made some special strategy necessary, and Camilla hardly spoke a word to Mr. Gibson during the evening. Let us hope that she found some temporary consolation in the presence of the stranger.
“I hope you are going to stay with us ever so long, Mr. Burgess?” said Camilla.
“A month. That is ever so long;—isn’t it? Why I mean to see all Devonshire within that time. I feel already that I know Exeter thoroughly and everybody in it.”
“I’m sure we are very much flattered.”
“As for you, Miss French, I’ve heard so much about you all my life, that I felt that I knew you before I came here.”
“Who can have spoken to you about me?”
“You forget how many relatives I have in the city. Do you think my Uncle Barty never writes to me?”
“Not about me.”
“Does he not? And do you suppose I don’t hear from Miss Stanbury?”
“But she hates me. I know that.”
“And do you hate her?”
“No, indeed. I’ve the greatest respect for her. But she is a little odd; isn’t she, now, Mr. Burgess? We all like her ever so much; and we’ve known her ever so long, six or seven years—since we were quite young things. But she has such queer notions about girls.”
“What sort of notions?”
“She’d like them all to dress just like herself; and she thinks that they should never talk to young men. If she was here she’d say I was flirting with you, because we’re sitting together.”
“But you are not; are you?”
“Of course I am not.”
“I wish you would,” said Brooke.
“I shouldn’t know how to begin. I shouldn’t indeed. I don’t know what flirting means, and I don’t know who does know. When young ladies and gentlemen go out, I suppose they are intended to talk to each other.”
“But very often they don’t, you know.”
“I call that stupid,” said Camilla. “And yet, when they do, all the old maids say that the girls are flirting. I’ll tell you one thing, Mr. Burgess. I don’t care what any old maid says about me. I always talk to people that I like, and if they choose to call me a flirt, they may. It’s my opinion that still waters run the deepest.”
“No doubt the noisy streams are very shallow,” said Brooke.
“You may call me a shallow stream if you like, Mr. Burgess.”
“I meant nothing of the kind.”
“But what do you call Dorothy Stanbury? That’s what I call still water. She runs deep enough.”
“The quietest young lady I ever
