“I suppose I did want to see you,” he replied. “Anyhow, I was lonely. I wanted to talk to some one. I walked all the way up here from Chelsea.”
“You have something to tell me?” she suggested.
“There was something,” he admitted. “I thought perhaps you ought to know. I had supper with your father last night. We talked about you.”
She started as though he had struck her; her face was suddenly pale and anxious.
“Are you serious, Leonard?” she asked. “My father?”
He nodded.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I ought not to have blundered it out like that. I forgot that you—you were not seeing anything of him.”
“How did you meet him?”
“By accident,” he answered. “I was sitting alone up in the balcony at Imano's, and he wanted my table because he could see you from there, so we shared it, and then we began talking. I knew who he was, of course; I had seen him in your sister's room. He told me that he had engaged the table for every night this week.”
She looked across the road.