"I am," he said, bluntly; and encouraged himself to wonder, superciliously, what would come next.
"You are Martin, I think?" was the observation that followed.
It could not have been more felicitous: it was a simple sentence—very artlessly, a little timidly, pronounced; but it chimed in harmony to the youth's nature: it stilled him like a note of music.
Martin had a keen sense of his personality: he felt it right and sensible that the girl should discriminate him from his brothers. Like his father, he hated ceremony: it was acceptable to hear a lady address him as "Martin," and not Mr. Martin, or Master Martin, which form would have lost her his good graces for ever. Worse, if possible, than ceremony, was the other extreme of slipshod familiarity: the slight tone of bashfulness—the scarcely-perceptible hesitation—was considered perfectly in place.
"I am Martin," he said.
"Are your father and mother well?"—(it was lucky she did not say papa and mama: that would have undone all)—"and Rose and Jessie?"
"I suppose so."
"My cousin Hortense is still at Briarmains?"
"Oh, yes!"
Martin gave a comic half-smile and demi-groan: the half-smile was responded to by the lady, who could guess in what sort of odour Hortense was likely to be held by the young Yorkes.
"Does your mother like her?"
"They suit so well about the servants, they can't help liking each other."
