“She’s a lady,” said Monty offensively. “That’s the type that’ll always seem like a foreign language to you.”
She lifted one shoulder delicately.
“I don’t pretend to be a lady, and what I am, you’ve made me,” she said, and the reproach was mechanical. He had heard it before, not only from her but from others similarly placed. “I don’t think it’s very kind to throw my education up in my face, considering the money I’ve made for you.”
“And for yourself.” He yawned. “Get me some tea.”
“You might say ‘please’ now and again,” she said resentfully, and he smiled as he took up the evening paper, paying her no more attention, until she had rung the bell with a vicious jerk and the silver tray came in and was deposited on a table near him.
“Where are you going to-night?”
His interest in her movements was unusual, and she was flattered.
“You know very well, Monty, where I’m going to-night,” she said reproachfully. “You promised to take me too. I think you’d look wonderful as a Crusader—one of them—those old knights in armour.”
He nodded, but not to her comment.
“I remember, of course—the Arts Ball.”