"I know; but do you know I sometimes suspect ... look here. Do you think Woodville—don't you think Sylvia ... likes him?"
Felicity sat up with a jerk.
"Frank Woodville! That highly-principled, highly-strung, highly-cultivated, intellectual young man? Oh no! Oh no! Why he, as papa's secretary, would no more try to——"
"Who says he would? She might like him all right, I suppose. Besides, if he is highly cultivated, as you call it, and all that, it's not his fault, is it? He's a good-looking chap all the same. Face facts, I say! and if the truth were known, and every one had their rights, he may be human! You never know!"
Felicity laughed, and then said—
"I do hope he's not. It would be so impossible! Rather romantic too, a puritanical secretary with a figure and a profile in love with the pretty daughter of a pompous politician. He teaches her Latin too. Sort of Abelard and Francesca—or something—But oh! I don't believe it."
"Abelard! Oh, what rot! Do shut up! Well, remember I've given you a hint, and I don't ask you not to tell—I treat you as an officer and a gentleman."
"Don't worry about me," said Felicity, smiling, "I talk so much that I never have time to repeat a single thing about anybody—to the wrong person."
"I know. Will you dine with us to-morrow, as Chetwode's out of town?"
"No, Savile darling, I can't. I'm dining with Mrs. Ogilvie. You needn't mention it."