They were not mere outer disguises;
they were finished pieces of dramatic study. Those two people were
an actor and actress, as well as a pair of rogues; and in both
their roles they were simply inimitable.
As a rule, Charles is by no means polite to casual trespassers on
the Seldon estate; they get short shrift and a summary ejection.
But on this occasion he had a reason for being courteous, and he
approached the lady with a bow of recognition. "Lovely day," he
said, "isn't it? Such belts on the sea, and the heather smells
sweet. You are stopping at the inn, I fancy?"
"Yes," the lady answered, looking up at him with a charming smile.
("I know that smile," Charles whispered to me. "I have succumbed to
it too often.") "We're stopping at the inn, and my husband is doing
a little geology on the hill here. I hope Sir Charles Vandrift won't
come and catch us. He's so down upon trespassers. They tell us at
the inn he's a regular Tartar."
("Saucy minx as ever," Charles murmured to me. "She said it on
purpose.") "No, my dear madam," he continued, aloud; "you have
been quite misinformed. _I_ am Sir Charles Vandrift; and I am _not_
a Tartar. If your husband is a man of science I respect and admire
him. It is geology that has made me what I am to-day." And he drew
himself up proudly.
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