“Not on his, I am sure!”
“You know, it won’t do any good,” he smiled fondly at her, as one smiles at the folly of a loved woman; “Rodrigg is too deeply pledged, has his whole party behind him. I could no more convince him, even in these enchanted premises, than in the dry precincts of the House. Political conversions are very rare.”
“But you may convert him,” Camelia urged. “I will give you every opportunity.”
“And it is rather unfair, you know.” Sir Arthur paused in their strolling to look at her face, half shadowed in the sunlight by the brim of her white hat. “He perhaps imagines that he is coming for purposes far removed from the political.”
“Oh no, no, no. I tell you, dear Sir Arthur, that—well—since you must have it—I refused him. He hasn’t a hope; I pinched the last pangs out of him a long time ago. In fact, I let him see that I found his audacity rather funny than piteous. I have laughed him into most submissive platonics. He will come, because he really is my friend, and really likes me; and I want him to come, because he must like you.”
“Camelia!” Sir Arthur had used her name more than once of late, and she let it pass with a half-merry, half-menacing little glance.
“You dear little schemer,” he added. Though spoken in tenderest teasing, Camelia was just enough conscious of a certain applicability to say with some quickness—
“Not really. You know I’m not. I only want to help you—legitimately, I would not lift my little finger to win your cause if you did not want me to.”
“Really, I know you’re not!” Sir Arthur’s voice retained the teasing quality, but the tenderness had deepened; Camelia was listening all the while to those dogged passages from the piano. They ceased now, and a certain gravity and determination of look that had succeeded Sir Arthur’s last words quite justified a sudden retreat.
“I must go and make Mr. Perior stop to lunch. One only gets him out of his lair by force and wheedling! I wheedle him!” She left Sir Arthur rather disconsolately cut short, and ran off to the house, her own words ringing reassuringly in her ears. Yes, she could wheedle him. Despite unreason, stupid unreason, despite rebellious crossness and pretended indifference, she had the mastery. He cared so much; that was the fundamental fact that upheld Camelia’s assurance; he cared enough to be very angry. He would try to hide his anger of course. Her heart had beaten rather quickly when Sir Arthur’s face took on that look of resolve—she was not ready, not quite sure, not yet, but flight from his purpose had been only a secondary impulse. She must see Perior. She ran through the morning-room and met him coming down the stairs, and panting a little, laughing a little, she leaned against the banisters and opposed his passage.