CHAPTER VIII
Miss Sybil Bultiwell showed that she had a very pretty taste in food even if her weaknesses in other directions were undiscoverable. Seated at a table for two in Jacob’s favourite corner at the Ritz grill-room, she ordered langouste with mayonnaise, a French chicken with salad, an artichoke, a vanilla ice, and some wonderful forced strawberries. She drank a cocktail and shared to a moderate extent the bottle of very excellent dry champagne which her companion insisted upon. The aloofness of her general attitude was naturally modified a little, in deference to appearances, but at no time did she give Jacob the slightest hope of breaking down the barrier of icy reserve with which she had chosen to surround herself. He made one great effort about midway through the meal.
“Miss Bultiwell,” he said, “when I visited once at the Manor House—the first time it was, I think—you were very kind to me.”
“I have forgotten the circumstance.”
“I have not. I never could. I remember that I arrived on a bicycle, very hot and somewhat—er—inappropriately dressed. Your father, who had invited me over because at that time I was a useful business connection, took no particular pains to set me at my ease. I was very uncomfortable. You were exceedingly kind to me that evening.”
“Was I?” she asked indifferently.
Jacob took a sip of champagne and went on valiantly.
“I had never met any one like you before. I have never met any one like you since. Why should you treat me as though I were something entirely contemptible, because I refused to accept your father’s fraudulent balance sheet and put money into a ruined business?”
Sybil’s blue eyes, which, as he knew, alas! too well, were capable of holding such sweet and tender lights, flashed upon him with a single moment’s anger.