“You know Mr. Pratt, don’t you?” she asked carelessly. “I thought so. Miss Bultiwell’s a perfect dear,” she continued, turning to Jacob. “She comes across the Square and sings to me sometimes after dinner and even condescends to play my accompaniments. You’ve no idea what a tax that is upon any one’s good nature.”
“I understood that you were to be alone this evening,” Sybil remarked.
“But we are alone—practically,” Lady Mary declared. “I am sure you wouldn’t count Mr. Montague, and Mr. Pratt is an old friend.—One moment, there’s my mother calling. Don’t move, either of you, or we shall have to sit in that stuffy drawing-room all the evening.”
They were alone, and Jacob found it exceedingly difficult to think of anything to say.
“I had no idea that you were persona grata in this household,” Sybil remarked coldly.
“I’m not—if it means what it sounds as if it did,” Jacob replied. “I am asked here because I am very rich and because the Marquis is interested in money-making schemes. Do you like being a nursery governess?”
“I hate it!”
“Worse than giving dancing lessons?”
“You needn’t rub it in. That was just an unfortunate episode.”