"Why, of course!" he said. "Abrupt, not a bit. And you live in London! Now, shall I guess what part? Let me see. You are an artist. Yes. Well, Chelsea——"
"Wrong; but Kensington is not so far away," she said, with a smile.
"Kensington," he said. "The Art School, of course. How jolly! I've got rooms not very far from there. Perhaps we shall—" he hesitated and watched her rather fearfully—"we might meet, you know."
"I should say that there was nothing more improbable, my—Lord Leyton. We don't know the same people, and never shall, and——" she stopped, her own words had recalled Mrs. Hale's warning. "I must go now," she said, rising suddenly.
"Oh, it's not ten," he pleaded. "You feel chilly? Let me put your shawl on. It has slipped down. Why, what a funny shawl it is!"
"It's an antimacassar," she said laughing.
"So it is!" he said. "And look here, it has got entangled in my watch-chain; but they are built to get entangled in things, aren't they?" he added, fumbling with all a man's awkwardness at the tangled threads.
"Oh, you'll never get it off like that," said Margaret impatiently, and innocently enough her small supple fingers flew at it.
His own hand and hers touched, and with a feeling of surprise he felt the blood tingling at her touch. He looked at the lovely face so close to his own, so gravely, unconsciously beautiful, and a wild desire to lift the hand to his lips seized him, but with a mighty effort he forced it down.