Paul felt jealous. Lord Hubert Aldringham's reputation—for some things—was European. "I hope so," he said with emphasis. "And you knew him well then, too?"
"I never said so," replied the lady. "I saw him once—twice perhaps—years ago—at the marriage of a princess. There, it has made you frown, we will speak no more of the Uncle Hubert!" and she leant back and laughed.
Paul felt very young. He wanted to show her he was grown up, and he wanted a number of things which had never even formed themselves in his imagination before. But she went on talking.
"And your cotelettes were tough, Paul, and you were so cross that first evening, and hated me! And oh! Paul, you had far too much wine for a boy like you!"
He reddened to the roots of his fair wavy hair, and then he hung his head.
"I know I did—it was beastly of me—but I was so—upset—I—"
"Look at me," she said, and she bent forward over him—a gliding feline movement infinitely sinuous and attractive.
Then he looked, his big blue eyes still cloudy with a mist of shame.
"You must tell me why you were upset, baby—Paul!"
How often she said his name! lingering over it as if it were music. It thrilled him every time.