“Very much for some things,” I answered.
He looked at me closely.
“There is something you have to tell me,” he said. “What is it?”
I glanced around at the little army of servants moving noiselessly about on all sides.
“There is something,” I acknowledged, “but I would rather tell it you when we are quite alone. Besides, it is rather a long story. It has mostly to do with Mr. Marx.”
The calm, stately serenity of Mr. Ravenor’s face underwent a sudden change. His dark brows almost met into his eyes, which I could not read. The change strengthened the impression which had lately been growing upon me. There was some deep mystery connected with the personality of Mr. Marx in which Mr. Ravenor was somehow concerned.
“What about Mr. Marx? What can you have to say to me about him?” he asked coldly.
“More than I should care to say here,” I answered, glancing around. “It is rather a long——”
“Come into the library to me the last thing tonight,” he said quickly. “I must know what this story is that you have got hold of. We will go into the drawing-room now.”
In a few moments the cloud had vanished from his face and he was again the polished host. And I, under protest, was inveigled into a corner by Miss Agnes Hamilton, and given my first lesson in the fashionable art of flirting.