"Well, that is as it may be. All women are angels,—at one time or other. But you must not speak to me in that strain, or I shall mention some one who would perhaps be angry." ("That's me, I presume," thinks Sir Penthony, grimly.) "I suppose"—archly—"I need not tell you to be in time? To be late under such circumstances, with me, would mean dismissal. Good-bye, dear boy: go, and my good wishes will follow you."
As the door closes upon Luttrell, Sir Penthony, cold, and with an alarming amount of dignity about him, comes slowly forward.
"Sir Penthony! you!" cries Cecil, coloring certainly, but whether from guilt, or pleasure, or surprise, he finds it hard to say. He inclines, however, toward the guilt. "Why, I thought you safe in Algiers." (This is not strictly true.)
"No doubt. I thought you safe in London—or anywhere else. I find myself mistaken!"
"I am, dear, perfectly safe." Sweetly. "Don't alarm yourself unnecessarily. But may I ask what all this means, and why you were hiding behind my curtains as though you were a burglar or a Bashi-Bazouk? But that the pantomime season is over, I should say you were practicing for the Harlequin's window trick."
"You can be as frivolous as you please." Sternly. "Frivolity suits you best, no doubt. I came in here a half an hour ago, having first almost come to blows with your servant before being admitted,—showing me plainly the man had received orders to allow no one in but the one expected."
"That is an invaluable man, that Charles," murmurs her ladyship, sotto voce. "I shall raise his wages. There is nothing like obedience in a servant."
"I was standing there at that window, awaiting your arrival, when you came, hurried to your boudoir, spent an intolerable time there with Luttrell, and finally wound up your interview here by giving him a billet, and permitting him to kiss your hands until you ought to have been ashamed of yourself and him."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, lying perdu in the curtains and listening to what wasn't meant for you." Maliciously. "You ought also to have been a detective. You have wasted your talents frightfully. Did Teddy kiss my hands?" Examining the little white members with careful admiration. "Poor Ted! he might be tired of doing so by this. Well,—yes; and—you were saying——"
"I insist," says Sir Penthony, wrathfully, "on knowing what Luttrell was saying to you."