“I didn’t know that you were there,” I said, in explanation of my start. “My name is Morton—Philip Morton.”
She looked me over gravely and critically, and succeeded in making me feel uncomfortable. Apparently, however, the examination ended in my favour, for the frown disappeared and she closed her book.
“Philip is pretty,” she said condescendingly. “I don’t think much of Morton. I rather like Philip, though.”
“I—I’m glad of that,” I answered lamely. It was very ridiculous, but I could think of nothing else to say. I wanted to say something brilliant, but it wouldn’t come; so I stood still and looked at her and got rather red in the face.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked.
“Haven’t the least idea,” I admitted.
She leaned her small, delicate head upon her hand and began swaying her feet slowly backwards and forwards.
“I am Lady Beatrice Cecilia—my mother is Lady Silchester,” she said. “Do you think it is a pretty name?”
“Very,” I answered, biting my lip; “much prettier than mine.”
“Do you know, I think you are a nice boy!” she proceeded. “I rather like you.”