"No, indeed!" said Braybrooke, managing a laugh that just indicated his
appreciation of the remark as an excellent little joke. "But it really
means nothing."

"That's a pity. One's manner should always have a meaning of some kind.
Otherwise it is an absolute drawback to one's personality."

"That is perhaps a fault of the Englishman. But we must remember that
still waters run deep."

"Do you think so? But if they don't run at all?"

"How do you mean?"

"There is such a thing as the village pond."

"How very trying she is this afternoon!" thought poor Braybrooke,
endeavouring mentally to pull up his socks.

"I half promised Craven the other day," he lied, resolutely ignoring her
unkind comparison of his protege to the abomination which is too often
veiled with duckweed, "to contrive another meeting between you and him.
But I fear he has bored you. And in that case perhaps I ought not to
hold to my promise. You meet so many brilliant Frenchmen that I dare
say our slower, but really I sometimes think deeper, mentality scarcely
appeals to you."

(At this point he saw Fanny Cronin leaning impressively towards Mrs.
Clem Hodson, as if about to impart some very secret information to that
lady, who bent to receive it.)