Moth and Rust | Page 9

her high-backed chair,
listening with congealed civility to the would-be easy conversation,
streaked with nervous laughter, of a young man. Anne saw at a glance
that he must be Janet's brother, and she instinctively divined that, on the
strength of his sister's engagement, he was now making, unasked, his
first call on Mrs. Trefusis.

Fred Black was a tall, sufficiently handsome man seen apart from Janet.
He could look quite distinguished striding about in well-made breeches
among a group of farmers and dealers on market-day. But taken away
from his appropriate setting, and inserted suddenly into the Easthope
drawing-room, in Janet's proximity, he changed like a chameleon, and
appeared dilapidated, in spite of being over-dressed, irretrievably
second-rate, and unwholesome-looking. He was so like his sister that a
certain indefinable commonness, not of breeding but of character, and a
suggestion of cunning and insolence observable in him, were thrown
into high relief by the strong superficial resemblance of feature
between them.
Janet was sitting motionless and embarrassed before the tea-table,
waiting for the tea to become of brandied strength. Mrs. Trefusis,
possibly mindful of Anne's appeal, had evidently asked her future
daughter-in-law to pour out tea for her. And Janet, to the instant
annoyance of the elder woman, had carefully poured cream into each
empty cup as a preliminary measure.
George was standing in sullen silence by the tea-table, vaguely aware
that something was wrong, and wishing that Fred had not called.
The strain relaxed as Anne entered.
Anne came in quickly, with a gentle expectancy of pleasure in her
grave face. She gave the impression of one who has hastened back to
congenial society.
If this be hypocrisy, Anne was certainly a hypocrite. There are some
natures simple and patient, who quickly perceive and gladly meet the
small occasions of life. Anne had come into the world willing to serve,
and she did not mind whom she served. She did gracefully, even gaily,
the things that others did not think worth while. This was, of course, no
credit to her. She was made so. Just as some of us are so fastidiously,
so artistically constituted as to make the poor souls who have to live
with us old before their time.
Mrs. Trefusis's face became less knotted. Janet gave a sigh of relief.

George said "Hi, Ponto! How are ye?" and affably stirred up his
sleeping retriever with his foot.
Anne sat down by Janet, advised her that Mrs. Trefusis did not like
cream, and then, while she swallowed a cup of tea sweetened to nausea,
devoted herself to Fred.
His nervous laugh became less strident, his conversation less pendulous
between a paralysed constraint and a galvanised familiarity. Anne
loved horses, but she did not talk of them to Fred, though, from his
appearance, it seemed as if no other subject had ever occupied his
attention.
Why is it that a passion for horses writes itself as plainly as a craving
for alcohol on the faces of the men and women who live for them?
Anne spoke of the Boer war in its most obvious aspects, mentioned a
few of its best-known incidents, of which even he could not be ignorant.
Janet glanced with fond pride at her brother, as he declaimed against
the Government for its refusal to buy thousands of hypothetical Kaffir
ponies, and as he posted Anne in the private workings of the mind of
her cousin, the Prime Minister. Fred had even heard of certain scandals
respecting the hospitals for the wounded, and opined with decision that
war could not be conducted on rose-water principles, with a bottle of
eau-de-Cologne at each man's pillow.
"Fine woman, that!" said Fred to Janet afterwards, as she walked a few
steps with him on his homeward way. "Woman of the world. Knows
her way about. And how she holds herself! A little thin perhaps, and
not much colour, but shows her breeding. Who is she?"
"Lady Varney."
"Married?
"N-no."
"H'm! Look here, Janet. You suck up to her. And you look how she

does things, and notice the way she talks. She reads the papers, takes an
interest--in politics. That's what a man likes. You do the same. And
don't you knock under to that old bag of bones too much. Hold your
own. We are as good as she is."
"Oh, no, Fred; we're not."
"Oh! it's all rot about family. It's not worth a rush. We are just the same
as them. A gentleman's a gentleman whether he lives in a large house
or a small one, and the real snobs are the people who think different.
Does it make you less of a lady because you live in an unpretentious
way? Not a bit of it. Don't talk to me."
Janet remained silent. She felt there was some hitch