“I’m awfully sorry, sir. I had no idea.”
Ordith laughed. “Nothing,” he said, “nothing at all.... By the way, there’s nothing official—no definite engagement as yet, so don’t go and worry her about it. Better act as if you hadn’t seen, unless she speaks to you of it.... You weren’t meant to see.”
So Hugh was bound. Ordith went on his way to report to Mr. Fane-Herbert the development of the campaign. Together they considered the position and reassembled their forces after the not unexpected reverse.
“The difficulty,” said Ordith, “is that she forbade me to see her again. Having regard to the standard of honour by which we live, that’s something of a tail-twister.”
“You will, of course, continue to come to my house on my business. The rest follows in time.”
Ordith turned the pages of a magazine. “The sad thing is that in five minutes or less she would have consented.”
“You’re a queer fellow, Ordith. But there, I suppose you are in love with her; I’m sure I hope so. Five minutes or five months, what does it matter? Obviously she doesn’t know her own mind. I’ll talk to her this evening.”
Ordith, his head bent over an illustration, looked up under his eyebrows. The most amazing trait in Fane-Herbert’s character was his complacency. There he stood, unruffled, speaking of Margaret as of a baby who had been naughty but who would in time learn to distinguish between right and wrong.
“I’ll talk to her this evening.”