“Nay, more likely his missus,” argued another; “she was a-laughin’ at him!”
As the door closed Leila threw her cigarette into the grate with a quick, decided gesture, and, leaning both elbows on the table, said, as she looked up at her brother—
“It’s an extraordinary entanglement, my dear boy. You are in love—for the first and only time in your life. Of course I can believe as much of that as I like!”
“You can!” His voice was sharp and combative.
“In love with an angel. I may tell you that she really is a fellow-creature! You think she likes you, but for one solid year and a half you may not impart to her who you are, or where you come from, or even your name—I mean your surname. You are at liberty to inform her that you are ‘Owen St. John Willoughby FitzGibbon’—a nice long string!—but must never breathe the magic word ‘Wynyard.’”
“No, you know I can’t,” he answered irritably.
“You are her aunts’ servant now, though you will be, if you live, Sir Owen Wynyard of Wynyard; but you may not give her the faintest hint, as you must stick to your bargain with Uncle Dick and he to his with you. Now, let me consider,” and she held up a finger: “if you speak, and reveal your identity, and become engaged, you lose a fortune.”
“Yes,” he agreed, a trifle dryly.
“If you don’t speak, you run a great chance of losing the young lady! Mr. Woolcock is on the spot, and as willing as Barkis. Westmere is close by—an ever-enticing temptation—and he has the goodwill of the girl’s relations.”
“Yes, that’s a true bill; it’s wonderful how you grasp things.”