“That’s the fellow. Why do you make friends with that kind of man? Not that he isn’t a decent fellow. I like him personally. Will you come along to dinner?”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” she said, her old aversion gaining ground.
“Little girl,” he said earnestly, “there’s nothing you couldn’t have from me. Why do you want to trouble your pretty head about this cheap play acting? I’ll give you a company of your own if you want it, and the best car that money can buy.”
His eyes were like points of fire, and she shivered.
“I have all I want, Sir Gregory,” she said.
She was furious with Michael Brixan. How dared he presume to accept an invitation on her behalf? How dare he call himself her friend? Her anger almost smothered her dislike for her persecutor.
“You come over to-night—let him bring you,” said Penne huskily. “I want you to-night—do you hear? You’re staying at old Longvale’s. You can easily slip out.”
“I’ll do nothing of the kind. I don’t think you know what you’re asking, Sir Gregory,” she said quietly. “Whatever you mean, it is an insult to me.”
Turning abruptly, she left him. Michael would have spoken to her, but she passed, her head in the air, a look on her face which dismayed him, though, after a moment’s consideration, he could guess the cause.
When the various apparatus was packed, and the company had taken their seats in the char-à-banc, Michael observed that she had very carefully placed herself between Jack Knebworth and the sulking leading man, and wisely himself chose a seat some distance from her.