Doris replied in the negative, then suddenly her face crimsoned.
“There is one thing more,” she said in a low voice. “Can you tell me Lord Neville’s address in Ireland?”
Her voice faltered, but her clear pure eyes met his steadily. He showed not the faintest surprise, but seemed to think for a moment or two.
“I am sorry to say I cannot,” he said. “Did you want to write to him?”
“Yes,” she said. “I wish I could tell you——” her voice broke.
He raised his hand with a soft, deprecating smile.
“My dear young lady, tell me nothing more than you wish. I am—” he laid his hand upon his heart—“I beg you to believe that I am not curious. Why should you not write to Lord Neville, if you choose, or to any other person? I presume you know him?”
“Yes—I know him,” she said, turning her head aside.
“Just so,” he assented, smoothly. “And you wish to tell him where you are going? Is it not so?”
“No!” said Doris, suddenly, and turning pale. “I do not wish him to know—ah, I cannot tell you, you would not understand!”