Ida Dacre stared. This was her first proposal, and it was being made second-hand, by an impudent, curly-haired middy, masquerading in a gaudy cotton frock and mittens.
No, no, the whole thing was too much like a burlesque! Bobby—she had heard of him—was once more imagining himself behind the footlights, and playing a part. She made a violent effort, and dragged away her hand.
“I think your high spirits run away with you, Mr. Lovett,” she said stiffly. “I forgive you for your joke—but I really cannot suffer you to take any further liberties. Let me advise you to resume your own identity—and to cut your cable without delay.”
Bobby flushed to the roots of his rust-coloured hair; he gulped down something in his throat, and said:
“I know quite well that I deserve to be put in irons. I’m thinking of Edgar, and how I’ve damaged his cause—acted as a first-class, double-armour-plated destroyer. Won’t you give me one word—half a word?”
“Certainly not—pray why should I?”
“I will tell you,” again seizing her hand. “When you called this afternoon I peeped at you and Mrs. Lawrence through a hole in the purdah.”
“Oh, did you, indeed!” she said, becoming as red as a rose. “What a nice gentlemanly thing to do!”
“Yes, I just ‘took an observation,’ as we say. I saw your sister looking at the books and prints. You came to the writing-table, directly under my eye; there was a pile of Edgar’s new photographs on it—just unpacked. They are rather ripping, I’ll allow. You took up one and gazed at it, and then—ahem!—when no one was looking you put it to your lips—you know you did—you kissed him!”
Mrs. Lawrence at this moment stood in one of the many doorways, and beheld a red-haired boy in petticoats sitting close to her sister, holding her hand in a tight grip, and speaking with forcible emphasis.