“And so you won’t speak,” she said impatiently, “you are inflexible?”
He bowed his head.
“Look here; we are just coming face to face with the party. Will you accost them?”
“No; I prefer not—unless Mrs. Loftus recognises me.”
They approached in a line, the two younger people handsome and radiant—Rata all in white, carrying a becoming pink sunshade—the elder ladies deep in mutual confidences. Little did they suspect that the smiling lady in grey, who had accosted them in passing, was elaborating a scheme which was to upset their happy anticipations.
“Well, Mr. Dexter,” said Lady Foxrock, “I see you are a man of honour, and respect the affairs of other people, and I must say, that, much as I should like to know something about my future sister-in-law, I admire your reticence immensely. We will consider our talk strictly confidential. Are you married?”
“Yes; that was my wife with the Greysons—the little woman in the blue toque.”
“You won’t mention the subject to her, will you?”
“No, certainly not. The less said the better.”
“Where are you staying?”