“But,” began Laura again, a little more faintly this time. “But——”
Once more Mr. Priestley held up a hand, now invested with quiet authority. “I insist,” he said with dignity, “You, yourself, have conferred the privilege of insistence upon me, and I exercise it. I insist!”
“Oh!” said Laura feebly. “All right, then. Er—thank you, Mr. Priestley, very much.”
“If I call you Laura,” Mr. Priestley pointed out with gentle reproof, “surely you ought to call me Matthew.”
“Thank you, Matthew,” said Laura meekly.
She had not the heart to point out to this engaging babe that it really is not done to keep young women in bachelor rooms, even with the most unselfish intentions; nor is it exactly healthy for the said young woman’s reputation to consent to take up her residence in a bachelor’s rooms, even through a desire not to hurt the bachelor’s feelings by refusing to do so. These things did not appear to touch Mr. Priestley. He was not of the world, worldly; he was of the elect, a big-hearted infant. And to talk of scandal to infants and put nasty worldly, prurient ideas into their innocent heads is manifestly no woman’s job.
But as to what was really going to happen——! Laura shrugged her shoulders whimsically and looked out of the window. She had asked for it, and apparently she was getting it. But it was a pity that she did not appear to be able to invent any story at all which did not recoil on her own shingled head.
What was she going to do? She shrugged her shoulders again.
Anyhow—it was deadly dull in Duffley.