“My dear Leslie,” she said, as she stood upon the broad steps, “you are losing your habit of gallantry. A year ago you would not have ventured to suggest that in my absence the coming or going of your other guests could matter a straw.”
“You know very well that it doesn’t,” he answered, dropping his voice. “You know very well——”
“To-night,” she interrupted calmly, “I will not be made love to! I am not in the humour for it.”
He looked down at her curiously. He was a man of exceptional height, thin, grey, still handsome, an ex-diplomat, whose career, had he chosen to follow it, would have been a brilliant one. Wealth and immense estates had thrust their burdens upon him, however, and he was content to be the most popular man in his county.
“There is nothing the matter?” he asked anxiously.
She shook her head.
“You are well?” he persisted, dropping his voice.
“Absolutely,” she answered. “It is not that. It is a mood. I used to welcome moods as an escape from the ruts. I suppose I am getting too old for them now.”
He shook his head.