The effort succeeded beyond her hopes. Lord Mackworth was clearly impressed; he put questions which Lilian answered out of the mouth of Felix. Strange that this man should be he who had inexcusably omitted to pay his trumpery bill at Clifford Street, the man through whose unconscious agency she had been unjustly cast into the street! However, the past did not in the least affect her feeling for him. What she most vividly recalled was that she had striven to serve him and had served him. He made no reference--doubtless from delicacy--to the night of their meeting; nor did he betray even the very smallest surprise at seeing her, the typewriting girl, exquisitely and expensively dressed, in the finest baccarat rooms on the Riviera. (Of course, she might be married, or have inherited a fortune--he could think as he chose.)
They went on talking and then a pause came, and Lord Mackworth said bluntly:
"I saw you from the yacht this afternoon."
"Oh! What yacht?"
"The Qita."
"The big one? Is it yours?"
"Oh lord, no! She belongs to my friend Macmusson--we dined together here to-night."
"It must be terribly big. I suppose you have an enormous party on board?"
"Not a bit. Only Macmusson and his three old aunts, and his niece--adopted daughter. Nobody else."
"That's the girl you were making love to," Lilian's heart accused him. "She's going to be very rich and she'll pay all your family debts. That's what it is. But what difference does it make?" her heart added, "You are you." And aloud: "I heard the yacht was leaving to-night."