“I know,” he assented. “I was asked, but I didn’t see the fun of it. It puts my back up to see Penelope monopolized by that fellow,” he added gloomily.
“Well, listen to what I have to say,” the Duchess went on. “Something happened there—I don’t know what—to upset Penelope very much. She never spoke a word coming home, and she has gone straight up to her room and locked herself in. Somehow or other the Prince managed to offend her. I am sure of that, Charlie!”
“I’m beastly sorry,” Somerfield answered. “I meant to say that I was jolly glad to hear it.”
The Duchess coughed.
“I didn’t quite hear what you said before,” she said severely. “Perhaps it is just as well. I rang up to say that you had better come round and dine with us tonight. You will probably find Penelope in a more reasonable frame of mind.”
“Awfully good of you,” Somerfield declared heartily. “I’ll come with pleasure.”
Dinner at Devenham House that evening was certainly a domestic meal. Even the Duke was away, attending a political gathering. Penelope was pale, but otherwise entirely her accustomed self. She talked even more than usual, and though she spoke of a headache, she declined all remedies. To Somerfield’s surprise, she made not the slightest objection when he followed her into the library after dinner.
“Penelope,” he said, “something has gone wrong. Won’t you tell me what it is? You look worried.”
She returned his anxious gaze, dry-eyed but speechless.
“Has that fellow, Prince Maiyo, done or said anything—”