He looked at it and smiled. "If there
were a little more mica in it," he said, "it would be the
characteristic gneiss of ice-borne boulders, hereabouts. But
there isn't _quite_ enough." And he gazed at it curiously.
"Indeed," I answered, "it doesn't come up to sample, doesn't it?"
He gave me a meaning look. "Ten per cent," he murmured in a slow,
strange voice; "ten per cent is more usual."
I trembled violently. Was he bent, then, upon ruining me? "If you
betray me--" I cried, and broke off.
"I beg your pardon," he said. He was all pure innocence.
I reflected on what Charles had said about taking nothing for
granted, and held my tongue prudently.
The other incident was this. Charles picked a sprig of white heather
on the hill one afternoon, after a picnic lunch, I regret to say,
when he had taken perhaps a glass more champagne than was strictly
good for him. He was not exactly the worse for it, but he was
excited, good-humoured, reckless, and lively. He brought the sprig
to Mrs. Forbes-Gaskell, and handed it to her, ogling a little.
"Sweets to the sweet," he murmured, and looked at her meaningly.
"White heather to White Heather." Then he saw what he had done,
and checked himself instantly.
Mrs. Forbes-Gaskell coloured up in the usual manner.
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