Where Marjorie had suspected him of easy-going callousness, of philandering in the train of idle, fine ladies, of singing French songs, of putting himself on the social and intellectual plane of a Major Tredennis. ‘Six hours a week must, I own, be grudged to him--the hours he spends at Tintajeux Manoir.’ ‘Spare yourself the trouble of being polite, Mr. Arbuthnot. If you knew how I detest politeness!’ ‘But remember all his other hours.’ The art of thought-reading was certainly to be reckoned among Gaston’s accomplishments. Within ten minutes of his introduction to this little classico-mathematical girl, behold him discoursing with cunning naturalness on the subject likeliest to interest her in the world--Geff’s virtues! ‘Remember how his days, often his nights, are really passed.’ ‘Mr. Geoffrey Arbuthnot reads, does he not?’ Marjorie gazed into the heart of a glorious Duc de Rohan with interest. ‘Geoffrey reads as I,’ said Gaston, passing into a lighter strain, ‘meant to read, once. You look sceptical, Miss Bartrand! There was a time when I had bookish ambition. Yes, I talked, like many a fool before me, of going in for two Triposes, and left Cambridge without a degree. But Geff has a gigantic physique, a real hunger for hard work. He simply does not know the meaning of taking a holiday. As they chatted Gaston’s eyes dwelt with artistic satisfaction on the girl’s slender figure and hands, on the chiselled Southern face overkissed by sea and sun for some English tastes, but pure, fresh, as the wine-dark roses over which she bent. ‘I am a sculptor by trade,’ he went on. ‘It might be truer to say a poor manufacturer of statuettes for the London market. Geff has told you how we get our daily bread, has he not?’ ‘My tutor speaks of little--beyond my reading,’ stammered Marjorie, still without meeting the penetrating glance of Gaston Arbuthnot. ‘Well, even after work as light as mine, I find,’ said Gaston, with a clear conscience, ‘that amusement, varied in kind and ample of quantity, is needful. The heartiness of one’s work seems determined to a nicety by the heartiness of one’s play. Geoffrey takes his recreation just now in the wards of the Guernsey hospital. There was a bad quarry accident the day after our arrival here----’ ‘I know,’ exclaimed Marjorie, paling. ‘The worst accident we have ever had at St. Sampson’s.’ ‘Geoffrey, I need not say, went to the fore as a volunteer. Between the poor lads in hospital and those who lie still in the houses to which they were carried from the quarry his hands are full. That is the way Geff recreates himself.’