The Marchioness was silent for a moment. There was a little more color than usual in her beautiful cheeks and a dangerous glitter in her eyes.
“You can go home, Mr. Wingrave,” she said.
He rose to his feet imperturbably. The Marchioness stretched out a long white hand and gently forced him back again.
“You mustn’t talk like that to me,” she said quietly. “I am sensitive.”
He bowed.
“A privilege, I believe, of your order,” he remarked.
“Of course, if you want to quarrel—” she began.
“I don’t,” he assured her.
“Then be sensible! I want to talk to you.”
“Sensible, alone with you!” he murmured. “I should establish a new record.”