“Now, then,” she said, blowing the smoke through her handsome nostrils. “Let’s have a true and particular account of yourself.”
“I’m—I’m staying here for a time,” he said, trying to speak in a careless, matter-of-fact tone. “I—I haven’t been quite the thing—France didn’t suit me—and I ran down here for a change. I’m going back almost directly.”
She looked at him with charming incredulity.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” she said, flicking the ash from her cigarette, and leaning against a tree in an easy attitude, as if she were leaning against the ropes of her trapeze. “I don’t believe you’ve been out of England at all; and what’s more, I don’t care. You may go where you like, and do what you like, for what I care, Bartley.”
He drew a breath of relief, and the color came slowly back to his face.
“Then—then you didn’t come down here after me?” he said, with a pitiful attempt at a laugh.
“I certainly did not,” she retorted, with unaffected scorn. “I came down here”—and her eyes twinkled—“because the air of London didn’t agree with me, and I thought I’d take a change. Come down after you! Why, man, what do I want with you while you pay me my allowance regularly?”
“I thought——” he began.
“You flattered yourself too much,” she broke in. “And you don’t ask what I’ve been doing?” with a smile.
“I—I hope you’ve been enjoying yourself,” he said, conciliatingly.