“Oh, nothing. I mean she always takes me out wherever she can; she’s so good-natured.”
“She strikes me as being a very beautiful and brilliant person,” said Rupert coldly. “Very wonderful—very delightful. … It appears that Mrs. Hillier has influenza.”
“Oh yes,” said Madeline quickly—too quickly.
“You knew it? No; you thought that she probably would have,” said he, laughing, as he struck a match. Then he leant back, smoking, with that slow, subtle smile about nothing in particular that had a peculiar, hypnotic effect upon Madeline.
She adored him more and more every moment. She knew she was never at her best in his company; he made her nervous, shy, and schoolgirlish, and so modest that she seemed to be longing to ooze away, to eliminate herself altogether. Then he said:
“Well, Madeline, it wouldn’t be nice if I kept you too long away from your mother—she won’t trust me with you again.”
She jumped up.
“Have I been too long?”
“Nonsense, child,” he said. “But still——” With one look at the clock he rather hurriedly gave her her belongings.
“I’m going to put you into a nice taxi, and send you home. We shall meet at Hillier’s dinner, that will be nice, and we shall see the wonderful ballet together.”