But, for the Duke, he was quite content with his progress. She had put her confidence in his keeping, and, for a sound beginning, that meant much.
CHAPTER XIII
The Earl of Chesterfield entered his drawing-room in a very morose frame of mind, which was scarcely improved by his discovery of a young lady already seated there before him. She was yawning over an illuminated missal; but, at sight of the intruder, she clapped the volume down with a bang, stretched, put her arms behind her head, and smiled with an air of relieved welcome. Any male to Moll was better than none.
“Come along,” she said. “Don’t be shy of me.”
He was pacing forward, his hands behind his back, and stopped to regard her sourly, his head askew.
“Yes? You remarked——?” he said.
Mrs. Davis went into a noiseless shake of laughter.
“Don’t do that,” she cried, “or you’ll give yourself a stiff neck. What a face, sure! Has my lady been putting bitter aloes on your nails, naughty boy, to stop your biting ’em?”
“Mrs. Davis,” said my lord, not moving, and with an air of acid civility, “I am really constrained to impress upon you that it is possible to presume on one’s privileges as Lady Chesterfield’s friend and guest.”
“Is it?” was the serene answer. “And I’m really constrained to impress upon you that it’s possible to presume upon one’s position as the husband of that guest’s hostess.”