“Ah, from Henge,” said Perior, looking at the end of the letter. “He was my fag at Eton, you know; dear old Arthur!”
“Yes, and you quarrelled with him five years ago, about politics.”
“We didn’t quarrel,” said Perior, with a touch of asperity; “he was quite big enough not to misunderstand my opposition. Must I read all this, Camelia? It looks rather dry.”
“Well, I should like you to. He is one of the strongest men in the government, you know.”
“Quite. He is the man for me, despite past differences of opinion. The man for you, too, perhaps,” he added, glancing sharply up at her from the letter; “his devotion is public property, you know.”
“But my reception of his devotion isn’t,” laughed Camelia.
“I am snubbed,” said Perior, returning to the letter, and flushing a little. Camelia noted the flush. Dear old Alceste! Shielding so ineffectually, under his sharp blunt bearing, that quivering sensitiveness.
She put her hand through his arm, sinking down beside him, her eyes over his shoulder following his, while he read her—certificate. Perior quite understood the smooth making of amends.
“Well, what do you say to that?” she asked when he had obediently read to the very end.
“I should say that he was a man very much in love,” said Perior, folding the letter.