"Like Sammy, I suppose!" said Agnes Brenton drily.
"Yes"—impatiently—"like Sammy or any other man who lives, and moves, and is not always up in the clouds contemplating the road to Heaven. My dear Agnes, there is no getting away from the fact that Rupert Haverford is a bore, a distinct and definite bore!"
"Well," said Mrs. Brenton, "if that is your opinion of the man, I should not bother about him so much."
"Now you are cross with me," said Camilla, "dear sweet old thing! Don't you know I always speak out my thoughts with you? Oh, here we are at your lodgings already! Look here, Agnes, you must let me help you with this girl. Poor soul! she must feel pretty miserable, I expect. Why not bring her in to luncheon to-morrow?"
Mrs. Brenton kissed the speaker.
"Why will you always try and make me believe you are what you are not?" she asked, half lightly, half sadly.
"Silly Agnes," said Camilla, laughingly, "it is all your own fault; you are so anxious to make me a saint, and all the time I am very much the other thing. Good night, darling!"
Mrs. Lancing's maid was waiting for her mistress, and there were some letters and a note from Sir Samuel Broxbourne.
Camilla opened the note first.
It was merely a reminder that she had promised to ride with him the following morning if the weather was good.