She smiled at him—delightfully.
“You foolish man!” she murmured. “Some day or other, you will turn out to be a terrible impostor. Do you know, I think I am going to ask you again—what I asked you last night?”
“I scarcely think that you will be so ill-advised,” he declared coldly. “Whether you believe it or not, I can assure you that I am incapable of affection.”
She sighed.
“I am not so sure about that,” she said with protesting eyebrows, “but you are terribly hard-hearted?”
He was entirely dissatisfied with the impression he had produced. He considered the attitude of the Marchioness unjustifiably frivolous. He had an uneasy conviction that she was not in the least inclined to take him seriously.
“I don’t think,” he said, glancing at the clock, “that I need detain you any longer.”
“You are really going away, then?” she asked him softly.
“Yes.”
“To call on Lady Ruth, perhaps?”