I did not answer--only looked at him defiantly.

Mr. Barton was waiting patiently for us in the white drawing-room, and we
had not been munching muffins for five minutes when the sound of wheels
crunching the gravel of the great sweep--the windows of this room look out
that way--interrupted our made conversation.

"This must be Bob arriving," Mr. Carruthers said, and went reluctantly
into the hall to meet his guest.

They came back together presently, and he introduced Lord Robert to me.

I felt at once he was rather a pet. Such a shape! Just like the Apollo
Belvedere! I do love that look, with a tiny waist and nice shoulders, and
looking as if he were as lithe as a snake, and yet could break pokers in
half like Mr. Rochester in _Jane Eyre_.

He has great, big, sleepy eyes of blue, and rather a plaintive expression,
and a little fairish mustache turned up at the corners, and the nicest
mouth one ever saw; and when you see him moving, and the back of his head,
it makes you think all the time of a beautifully groomed thorough-bred
horse. I don't know why. At once--in a minute--when we looked at each
other, I felt I should like "Bob." He has none of Mr. Carruthers's
cynical, hard expression, and I am sure he can't be nearly as old--not
more than twenty-seven or so.

He seemed perfectly at home--sat down and had tea, and talked in the most
casual, friendly way. Mr. Carruthers appeared to freeze up, Mr. Barton got
more _banal_, and the whole thing entertained me immensely.