“Was the ’47 port as good as you hoped?” I asked, sympathetically.
He sat down. I had arranged my chair so that there was none other in its immediate neighbourhood. Thus he was some way off, and could realize my whole silhouette.
“The ’47 port—oh yes!—but I am not going to talk of port. I want you to tell me a lot more about yourself, and your plans.”
“I have no plans—except to see the world.”
He picked up a book, and put it down again; he was not perfectly calm.
“I don’t think I shall let you. I am more than ever convinced you ought to have some one to take care of you; you are not of the type that makes it altogether safe to roam about alone.”
“Oh! as for my type,” I said, languidly, “I know all about that. Mrs. Carruthers said no one with this combination of colour could be good, so I am not going to try. It will be quite simple.”
He rose quickly from his chair, and stood in front of the great log fire, such a comical expression on his face.
“You are the quaintest child I have ever met,” he said.