He looked rather surprised at her knowledge of his tastes.
“Who told you that?” he asked.
She was on the point of telling him about Lord Norman Bruce; but something kept her silent, and for the first time since he had known her she looked embarrassed; then her woman’s wit came to her aid.
“Most men do, don’t they?” she said.
“Yes, I suppose so,” he assented, wondering at her momentary hesitation and confusion. “I’m afraid you’ve not had much of either since you’ve been in London. Do you think Lady Wyndover would care for a drive into the country? If so, I will bring a mail phaeton round some afternoon.”
“I should think she would like it, if it were warm, and she could get some tea. I think Lady Wyndover would die if she didn’t get some tea in the afternoon. I’ll tell her when she comes in.”
“And you, of course?” said Trafford.
She opened her eyes upon him, and they glowed with girlish pleasure.
“Me?” she said. “Oh! that’s very kind of you. I should like it awfully. I only go for a drive in the carriage, and it’s hot and stuffy, and makes me feel as if I couldn’t breathe.”
“You’ll be able to breathe in the phaeton,” he said, with a smile. “Shall we say to-morrow, if we can induce Lady Wyndover to go?”