you hadn’t come to see us. Emily, of course, can sit for hours on her own and never minds it; but I must have company. Don’t you love company, Mr Glapthorn?’
‘Only my own,’ I replied.
‘Oh, but that is terrible. You are as bad as Emily. And yet you were such a lively companion the other day, in the Park, was he not, Emily?’
All through this exchange Miss Carteret had sat, book in hand, impassively regarding her friend. Then, ignoring the question, she turned towards me and took off her spectacles.
‘How is your employer, Mr Glapthorn?’
‘My employer?’
‘Yes. Mr Christopher Tredgold. I understand from Lord Tansor that he has suffered a seizure.’
‘He was very poorly when I last saw him. I’m afraid I cannot say whether his condition has since improved.’
Mademoiselle Buisson gave a little sigh and crossed her arms, as if she were piqued by the suddenly serious turn of the conversation.
I had hoped for a warmer, less restrained, reception than this from Miss Carteret, and was unsure of what to say next.
‘Is your aunt at home?’ I said at last, feeling it would be polite of me to ask.
‘She is visiting a friend,’ Miss Carteret replied, ‘and will not return until this evening.’
‘Mrs Manners is a person who likes company very much,’ Mademoiselle Buisson observed, with a defiant toss of her head.
‘I think Mr Tredgold mentioned to me that Mrs Manners was your mother’s youngest sister?’ My employer had once spoken of Mr Carteret’s family, and of this lady, with whom Miss Carteret enjoyed a particularly close relationship.
‘That is correct.’
‘With whom you resided when you were in Paris?’
‘You are very curious about my family, Mr Glapthorn.’ The rebuke – if the remark was intended as such – was spoken in a soft, almost teasing tone, which strongly conveyed to me the notion that she was, after all, disposed to maintain the friendly relations that we had established during the course of our afternoon in Green-park. This encouraged me to take a little risk with my response.
‘I am curious about your family, Miss Carteret, because I am curious about you.’
‘That is a rather bold statement, and curious in itself. What possible interest can my dull life hold for someone such as you? For I conceive, Mr Glapthorn, that you are a person of wide experience and interests, with a certain largeness of view that I have observed before in men of strong intellect who have lived a good deal in the world on their own terms. You live by your wits – I am sure I am right to say this – and this gives you, if I may say so, a kind of feral character. Yes, you are an adventurer, Mr Glapthorn. I do not say that you can never be tamed, but I am sure you are not destined for domesticity. Don’t you agree, Marie-Madeleine?’
Mademoiselle had been regarding Miss Carteret and me with an expression of intense interest, her eyes darting from one to the other as each of us spoke.
‘I think,’ she said slowly, pursing her lips in concentration, ‘that Mr Glapthorn is what I have heard called in English a dark horse. Yes, that is what I think.
‘Well,’ I smiled, ‘I am not sure whether to be flattered or not.’
‘Oh,’ said Mademoiselle, ‘flattered, of course. A hint of mystery in a person is always an advantageous characteristic.’
‘So you think I am mysterious?’
‘Assuredly.’
‘And what do you think, Miss Carteret?’
‘I think we are all mysterious,’ she replied, opening her eyes to their fullest extent. ‘It is a question of degree. Everyone has things they would prefer to hide from the view of others, even from those to whom they are close – little secret sins, frailties, fears, even hopes that dare not be spoken; yet, on the whole, these are venial mysteries and do not prevent those who love us best from knowing us as we essentially are, both for good and bad. But there are those who are not at all what they seem. Such people, I think, are wholly mysterious. Their true selves are deliberately and entirely masked, leaving only a false aspect for others to know.’
Her unwavering gaze was uncomfortable, and the ensuing silence even more so. She was speaking generally, of course; yet there was an unmistakable pointedness to her words that struck me very forcefully. Mademoiselle gave a sigh, indicative of impatience with her serious friend, whilst I smiled weakly and, in an attempt to steer the conversation in another direction, asked Miss Carteret how long she would be staying in London.
‘Marie-Madeleine leaves for Paris tomorrow. I shall remain here a little longer, having nothing to draw me back to Evenwood.’
‘Not even Mr Phoebus Daunt?’ I asked.
At this, Mademoiselle Buisson gave out a little scream of laughter, and rocked back and forth on the sofa.
‘Mr Phoebus Daunt! You think she would go back for him? But you are teasing, I think, Mr Glapthorn.’
‘Why would Miss Carteret not wish to see her old friend?’ I asked, with an exaggeratedly uncomprehending expression.
‘Ah, yes,’ replied Mademoiselle, smiling, ‘her old friend and playfellow.’
‘Mr Glapthorn does not share the world’s admiration of Mr Phoebus Daunt,’ said Miss Carteret. ‘Indeed, he
