But he would not, feeling the violent necessity to impress upon her as much as possible, during this fortnight before they were married, how important were the conventions of life, even when it was going to be lived in so strange a place as Ararat House.
“Oh, you’re going now?” said Miss Harper, looking at him rather curiously.
“I shall be round in the morning. You’ll finish making the lists of what you still want?”
Michael felt very deeply plunged into domestic arrangements, as he drove to Grosvenor Road.
Maurice was sitting up for him, but Castleton had gone to bed.
“Look here, old chap,” Maurice began at once, “you can’t possibly marry that girl.”
Michael frowned.
“You too?”
“I know all about her,” Maurice went on. “I’ve never actually met her, but I recognized her at once. Even if you did know her people five years ago, you ought to have taken care to find out what had happened in between. As a matter of fact, I happen to know a man who’s had an affair with her—a painter called Walker. Ronnie Walker. He’s often up here. You’re bound to meet him some time.”
“Not at all, if I never come here again,” said Michael, in a cold rage.