“May I be told his name?”
Miss Abbott whispered, “Carella.” But the driver heard her, and a grin split over his face. The engagement must be known already.
“Carella? Conte or Marchese, or what?”
“Signor,” said Miss Abbott, and looked helplessly aside.
“Perhaps I bore you with these questions. If so, I will stop.”
“Oh, no, please; not at all. I am here—my own idea—to give all information which you very naturally—and to see if somehow—please ask anything you like.”
“Then how old is he?”
“Oh, quite young. Twenty-one, I believe.”
There burst from Philip the exclamation, “Good Lord!”
“One would never believe it,” said Miss Abbott, flushing. “He looks much older.”