“I am surprised at Lady Tresham,” she said, smiling. “I really don't think that I am at all properly chaperoned. This comes, I suppose, from having acquired a character for independence.”
Her gown seemed to fill the carriage—a little sea of frothy lace and muslin. He hesitated on the pavement.
“Shall I ride outside?” he suggested. “I don't want to crush you.”
She gathered up her skirt at once and made room for him. He directed the driver and stepped in beside her.
“I hope,” she said, “that your cigarette restored your spirits. You are not going to be as dull all the evening as you were at dinner, are you?”
He sighed a little wistfully. “I'd like to talk to you,” he said simply, “but somehow to-night... you know it was much easier when you were a journalist from the 'Hour'.”
“Well, that is what I am now,” she said, laughing. “Only I can't get away from all my old friends at once. The day after to-morrow I shall be back at work.”
“Do you mean it?” he asked incredulously.
“Of course I do! You don't suppose I find this sort of thing particularly amusing, do you? Hasn't it ever occurred to you that there must be a terrible sameness about people who have been brought up amongst exactly the same surroundings and taught to regard life from exactly the same point of view?”
“But you belong to them—you have their instincts.”