"I suppose so, they are such great friends;—only;—drudgery?—She likes Miss Bocock. She likes gardening,"—Mary's breath was almost taken away by his tense decisiveness.
"She likes Sir Basil better"; Jack said it in the freest manner, a manner that left untouched any deeper knowledge that they might both be in possession of. "Imogen likes him better, too. It's for that, so that Imogen may have the best of it, that she's taking Miss Bocock off Imogen's hands;—you see, I see that you do. So, you just stay here and keep still about your counter-demands, while I manage it."
"But Jack,—you bewilder me!—I ought to give my message. I hate managing."
"I'll see that your message is given."
"But how can you?—Jack—what are you planning?"
He was going and, with almost an impatience of her Puritan scruples, he paused at the door to reply:—"Don't bother. I'm all right. I won't manage it. I'll simply have it so."
Half an hour later Valerie came down-stairs wearing her white hat with its black ribbons and drawing on her gardening gloves. And in the large, cool hall, holding his serviceable letters, Jack awaited her.
"I hope you won't mind," he announced, but in the easiest tones; "we can't obey you this morning. Miss Bocock's gone off to the club with Imogen, and Sir Basil is going to take you for a drive."
Valerie, standing on the last step of the stair, a little above him, paused in the act of adjusting her glove, to stare at him. Easy as his tone was he couldn't hide from her that he wore a mask.
"Was Mary too late to give my message?"