To-day there was a check, a set-back in his thoughts, and he was uncomfortable lest it might shew in his manner. He talked too long about the Muddocks, then too long about Ashley Mead, then about something quite uninteresting. There was an unexplained check; it vexed and puzzled him. Lady Kilnorton, with her usual directness, told him what it was before they parted.
"You've been thinking about Ora Pinsent all the time," she said. "It would have been better to have the courage of your ingratitude and go on talking about her." The gay, good-humoured words were accompanied by a rather nervous little smile.
"Who is she?" asked Bowdon bluntly and with undisguised curiosity.
"She's Mrs. Jack Fenning. I don't know and I don't care who Jack Fenning is, only—"
"Only what?"
"Only he's not dead. I know you think that's the one thing he ought to be."
"I'm not sure about that," he answered, looking in her face. The face had suddenly become charming to him in its now apparent mixture of annoyance and merriment. "Well, I must be going," he added with a sigh. Then he laughed; Lady Kilnorton, after an instant's hesitation, joined in his laugh.
"She liked me to drive as fast as I could, and straight home!" said he. "Good-bye, Lady Kilnorton."
"Good-bye. I wonder you aren't a little more sensible at your age."
"She carries you off your feet, somehow," he murmured apologetically, as he made for the door. He was feeling both rude and foolish, confessing thereby the special relation towards his hostess which he had come to occupy.