Sir Conrad Fitzgerald came from time to time to the Castle. He was cordially received by the Earl and Lady Diana, who had respected and liked his parents, and remembered him well as a fair-haired boy, the childish playfellow and friend of Monica and Arthur. Old feelings of intimacy sprang up anew after the lapse of time. It seemed as if he had hardly been more than a year or two away. It was difficult to realise that the young man was practically an entire stranger, of whose history they were absolutely ignorant.
Monica felt the change most by a certain instinctive and involuntary shrinking from Conrad that she could not in the least explain or justify. She wished to like him; she told herself that she did like him, and yet she was aware that she never felt at ease in his presence, and that he inspired her with a certain indescribable sense of repulsion, which, oddly enough, was shared by her four-footed friends, the dogs.
Monica had a theory of her own that dogs brought up much in human society became excellent judges of character, but if so, she ought certainly to modify some of her own opinions, for the dogs all adored Randolph, and welcomed him effusively whenever he appeared; but they shrank back sullenly when Conrad attempted to make advances, and no effort on his part conquered their instinctive aversion.
Conrad himself observed this, and it annoyed him. He greatly resented Randolph’s protracted stay at the Castle, as he detested above all things the necessity of encountering him.
“How long is that fellow going to palm himself upon your father’s hospitality?” he asked Monica one day, with some appearance of anger. He had encountered Randolph and the Earl in the park as he came up, and he was aware that the cold formality of the greeting which passed between them had not been lost upon the keen observation of the latter. “I call it detestable taste hanging on here as he does. When is he leaving?”
“I do not know. Father enjoys his company, and so does Arthur. I have not heard anything about his going yet.”
“Perhaps you enjoy his company too?” suggested Conrad, with a touch of insolence in his manner.
A faint flush rose in Monica’s pale face. Her look expressed a good deal of cool scorn.
