A subtle instinct told him, before he had finished speaking, that his words were being eagerly followed by the girl who sat on his right hand. On the marchioness they fell with something of the effect of a cold spray. She shivered and got up.
“Ah, yes, of course, all that is very true, no doubt,” she murmured, hastily. “But I must really be going back to look after the people.” She turned a feline glance on Belle. “I wouldn’t sit out here too long if I were you, Miss Yorke; you may catch cold.”
“Thank you; I am not afraid of that,” was the quiet answer.
The marchioness turned her eyes from one to the other, pursed up her lips with severity, and reluctantly retreated.
Hammond watched her exit with a sarcastic smile.
“I am afraid the marchioness believes I have been drinking,” he observed.
The cynicism jarred on Belle as harshly as the seriousness had jarred on the marchioness. There is no woman who can respond to a man through all his moods, not even she who loves him best.
“I wonder how much truth there is in what you said just now?”
Hammond turned and fixed an earnest gaze on her. He saw her for the first time in his experience with a troubled brow, but he never guessed the cause. There is no man who can follow a woman through all her moods, not even he who loves her best.
“That is what I wanted to ask you,” he said, in answer to her question. “We two have known each other for some time, haven’t we; but how much do I know of you, or you of me?”