“Oh!” she said whimsically. “You will—lie for me?”
He flushed.
“I want Mrs. Kingdon to be your custodian—not this man.”
“So do I,” she said. “But I forget I am in custody up here.”
“I am wondering,” he said in a troubled tone, “how we can prevent the children from speaking of you before this man? And Kingdon, too, is sure to mention your name.”
“Oh, that will do no harm. He won’t know whom they mean. He doesn’t know me by my own name. I told you I had a great many convenient aliases. Remember?”
“Yes,” he replied shortly. “I remember.”
She went to her room, and presently Marta came in with her luncheon, some books and a message of sympathy from Kingdon. In spite of these distractions, time dragged and it was with a sigh of relief that she saw Kingdon and his guest motoring toward Westcott’s.
“Poor old Hebby! Just as hawk-nosed and lynx-eyed as ever. The last place he’d think of looking for me would be behind these curtains. It’s worth being a prisoner for an afternoon to know I have eluded him once more.”
When she came down to dinner, Kurt was again visibly impressed by her appearance. She wore another of her recently acquired gowns, a black one of sheer filmy material. Her hair, rippling back from her brows, was coiled low. Her face was pale and yet young and flowerlike. There was a new touch of wistfulness about her—a charm of repose, almost of dignity.