"Do nothing of the kind. I insist on that."
But he was again reflecting.
"That puzzles me," he said at last; "that she should receive you at all if she does not believe you. Why?"
She looked at him steadfastly for a moment, a satirical smile coming on her face. These emotions he was awakening in her made her an older woman.
"I really believe you don't know," she said at length.
"Certainly I don't know."
"Why, it's you!" He stared at her. It was, she saw, an honest wonder. "She adores you. They all do, all her ladies. They meet and talk over things, and you are the biggest thing of all. I am the daughter of Markham MacLeod. That is what she calls me."
"I see." He mused again. "I must go over there to-night."
"No! no! no!" It was an ascending scale of entreaty, but he did not regard it. He got up and offered her his hand.
"Come," he said. "Peter will be back. By the way," he added, as she followed him laggingly, "does Peter know why you came to America?"