“I know your time is priceless. I should never have ventured to come, but that I felt sure you would like to hear all the news from Sark. I have been there for the last fortnight. Marian told me to call on you the moment I returned.”
“Yes,” said Conolly, convinced that this was not true. “She promised to do so in her last letter.”
Mrs. Fairfax, on the point of publishing a few supplementary fictions, checked herself, and looked suspiciously at him.
“The air of Sark has evidently benefited you,” he said, as she paused. “You are looking very well—I had almost said charming.”
Mrs. Fairfax glanced archly at him, and said, “Nonsense! but, indeed, the trip was absolutely necessary for me. I should hardly have been alive had I remained at work; and poor Willie McQuinch was bent on having me.”
“He has been described to me as an inveterate lion hunter.”
“It is not at all pleasant, I assure you, to be persecuted with invitations from people who wish to see a real live novelist. But William McQuinch’s place at Sark is really palatial. He is called Sarcophagus on account of his wealth. A great many people whom he knew were staying in the island, besides those in the house with us. Marian was the beauty of the place. How every one admires her! Why do you not go down, Mr. Conolly?”
“I am too busy. Besides, it will do Marian good to be rid of me for a while.”
“Absurd, Mr. Conolly! You should not leave her there by herself.”
“By herself! Why, is not the place full?”