“But I don’t love him,” she cried. “I hate the sight of him.”
Lady Smith-Evered spread out her hands again, evidently baffled. “That makes it all the worse,” she said. “Romance is whitewash for the sepulchres of passion: it makes these things presentable; but if you say the affair was not prompted by love, then I absolutely fail to understand you. It sounds unnatural, indecent.”
She moved towards the door. “I’ll do my best to hush it up,” she concluded; “but the sooner you get married to some nice easy-going Englishman the better. These sort of things are more comme il faut after marriage, my dear.”
And with that she left the room.
[CHAPTER XXXII—THINKING THINGS OVER]
Benifett Bindane was seated on the front verandah of the Residency one afternoon, when Lord Barthampton drove up to the door in his high dogcart. He rose from his chair, and going to the steps, shook hands with the younger man somewhat less limply than was his wont.
“Is Lady Muriel in?” asked the visitor.
Mr. Bindane shook his head. “I’m afraid not; but I think she’ll be home to tea. Come in and have a drink.”
He led him into the library, and rang the bell. “What will you have?” he asked. “A whiskey and soda?”
“Thanks,” Lord Barthampton replied. “I’ve given up the temperance stunt. I think one needs something with a punch in it now that the weather’s getting hot.”