Yorke colored.
"If a man's to marry every girl he flirts with——," he said, half-angrily.
"All right, I don't mind. You've flirted with me and I haven't asked you to marry me. And so it's not her ladyship." A faint smile curved her lips, which looked drawn and constrained. "What other swell is it? I know 'em all—by sight."
"She is not a 'swell' at all," he said. "And you do not know her. I only saw her the other day down in the country."
"Where you have been this last week?" she said, in a low voice, perfectly steady and under control.
"Yes, I saw her, met her, by chance, quite by chance."
"And—and you fell in love with her right off?" she said.
"Yes," he said, looking straight before him and speaking as if in a dream. "I loved her at first sight."
"She must be very good-looking."
He smiled, absently. "Good-looking" was so poor a phrase by which to describe his Leslie.