She spoke rather softly and rather slowly. Her voice possessed a sibilant and musical intonation; there was perhaps the faintest suggestion of an accent. As she stood there smiling upon him in a deep blue gown, trimmed with a silvery fur, in the making of which no English dressmaker had been concerned, Wolfenden’s subjection was absolute and complete. He was aware that his answer was a little flurried. He was less at his ease than he could have wished. Afterwards he thought of a hundred things he would have liked to have said, but the surprise of seeing them so suddenly had cost him a little of his usual self-possession. Mr. Sabin took up the conversation.
“My infirmity,” he said, glancing downwards, “makes walking, especially on stone pavements, rather a painful undertaking. However, London is one of those cities which can only be seen on foot, and my niece has all the curiosity of her age.”
She laughed out frankly. She wore no veil, and a tinge of colour had found its way into her cheeks, relieving that delicate but not unhealthy pallor, which to Densham had seemed so exquisite.
“I think shopping is delightful. Is it not?” she exclaimed.
Wolfenden was absolutely sure of it. He was, indeed, needlessly emphatic. Mr. Sabin smiled faintly.
“I am glad to have met you again, Lord Wolfenden,” he said, “if only to thank you for your aid last night. I was anxious to get away before any fuss was made, or I would have expressed my gratitude at the time in a more seemly fashion.”
“I hope,” Wolfenden said, “that you will not think it necessary to say anything more about it. I did what any one in my place would have done without a moment’s hesitation.”
“I am not quite so sure of that,” Mr. Sabin said. “But by the bye, can you tell me what became of the fellow? Did any one go after him?”
“There was some sort of pursuit, I believe,” Wolfenden said slowly, “but he was not caught.”