She frowned slightly as if the question touched her self-love and vanity.
“Our dear friend does not at present seem much smitten by your humble servant’s charms,” she said, with a short laugh, which only barely hid her vexation.
He smiled and nodded.
“Our young friend is rather spoiled, you see. One cannot be the favored of the gods in the matter of youth, and strength, and features, without paying the usual penalty. Cecil is the most popular man in London. Believe me, there are twenty young ladies—I could give you their names”—and his lips curled—“who are, if not dying, living in love of him.”
“I know,” she said, with hardly restrained impatience. “Of course, there has been a dead-set at him. That is very natural, is it not? But—but I don’t think——”
“That the sultan has shown any partiality, that he has not yet thrown the handkerchief,” he finished for her. “No,” thoughtfully; “I don’t think he has. His lordship has, indeed, been so very impartial, not to say invulnerable, that I have sometimes wondered whether there was not some young lady hidden away, eh?” and he looked at her questioningly.
She started, and colored.
“Then there is?” he said at once.
“I—I don’t know,” she replied, musingly. “There may be. Last night I dined away from the Towers, at the Thurltons, you know?”
“I know,” he murmured, pleasantly. “Thurlton’s grandfather was transported for forgery; his wife’s sister ran away with young Lengard, I remember.”