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Flint's attentions, which to the casual eye might have seemed innocent enough on rainy days gallantly bending his ample girth in a rather too prolonged attempt to slip on the girls' rubbers, insisting on the quite unnecessary task of incasing them in their jackets and smoothing the sleeves of their shirt-waists in the process, flicking imaginary threads where the feminine curves were most opulent.
She felt that this was something she could not tell her father, nor could she answer his argument with what Tom Gaylord had said. She could not, indeed, answer Mr. Flint's argument at all; the subject, as he had declared, being too vast for her. And moreover, as she well knew, Mr. Flint was a man whom other men could not easily answer; he bore them down, even as he had borne her down.
He never told jokes, and so avoided deadly repetition. He had in a large measure that virtue the Chinese extol the virtue of allowing others to save their faces in peace. Was it any wonder Mr. Flint's social position was soon solidly established? He played the game as my mother forced it upon him, though at times, I think, it bored and chafed him sorely.
That's why your present bedroom, which was father's old study, had a slice taken off it to make the corridor larger, and why the big chimney and hearthstone are still there, although the fireplace is modernized. That was Flint's stupidity." "Whose stupidity?" asked Uncle Sylvester, trimming his nails. "Flint's the old architect." "Why didn't you make him change it back again?"
A look at his face and head dissipated a half-suspicion that had arisen in both Flint's mind and my own. I asked him a few questions relative to the sojourn of his master at Bath, and then said, "I wish you to go with me and Bee this Maria Emsbury."
"There's the man the Northeastern's got to look out for," he said. "The Humphrey Crewes don't count. But if Austen Vane ever gets started, there'll be trouble. Old man Flint's got some such idea as that, too. I overheard him givin' it to old Hilary once, up at Fairview, and Hilary said he couldn't control him. I guess nobody else can control him. I wish I'd seen him kick Ham downstairs."
He was for the moment alone, and stood with his head bent slightly forward, his bright cold glance intent upon the two persons approaching Mary Virginia and George Inglesby. His white teeth showed in a smile. I remembered, disagreeably, Flint's "I don't like the expression of his teeth: he looks like he'd bite."
There grew upon Isaac Worthington a sense that this midnight hour was in some way to be the culmination of the long years of hatred between them. He believed Jethro: he would have believed him even if Mr. Flint had not informed him that afternoon that he was beaten, and bitterly he wished he had taken Mr. Flint's advice many months before. Denunciation sprang to his lips which he dared not utter.
Further than this, Austen had touched him too often on the quick merely to be considered in the light of a young man who held opposite and unfortunate views although it was Mr. Flint's endeavour to put him in this light. The list of injuries was too fresh in Mr. Flint's mind even that last conversation with Victoria, in which she had made it plain that her sympathies were with Austen.
This lightened her sense of disgrace very much, so, leaving a part of her money to repair damages, she packed up her dilapidated wardrobe, and, making Hepsey promise to report progress from time to time, Christie went back to Mrs. Flint's to compose her mind and be ready
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