“I am afraid,” she said, with a sigh, “that you used to flirt with me.”
“I can assure you, B—B—Blanche,” he declared earnestly, “that I never said a word to you which I—I did not hon—hon—honestly mean. Blanche, I should like to ask you something.”
“Not now,” she interrupted hastily. “Do you know, I fancy that we must be getting too confidential. That odious man with the eyeglass keeps staring at us. Tell me what you are going to do when you leave here. You can ask me—what you were going to, afterwards.”
Mr. Blatherwick grew eloquent and Blanche was sympathetic. It was quite half an hour before they rose and prepared to depart.
“I know you won’t mind,” Blanche said to him confidentially, “if I ask you to leave the hotel first; the people I am with are a little particular, and it would scarcely do, you see, for us to go out together.”
“Certainly,” he replied. “Would you l—like me to leave you here—would it be better?”
“You might walk to the door with me, please,” she said. “I am afraid you must be very disappointed that your friend did not come. Are you not?”
Mr. Blatherwick’s reply was almost incoherent in its excess of protestation. They walked down the room together. Harcutt and Wolfenden look at one another.
“Well,” the former exclaimed, drinking up his liqueur, “it is a sell!”