“It is very strange,” said John to Mrs. Wyndham. “I wonder whether I can have done anything Miss Thorn resents. I am not sensitive, but it is impossible to mistake people when they look at one like that. She always does it just in that way.”
Mrs. Wyndham looked inquiringly at John for a moment, and the quick smile of ready comprehension played on her sensitive mouth.
“Are you really quite sure you have not offended her?” she asked.
“Quite sure,” John answered, in a tone of conviction. “Besides, I never offend any one, certainly not ladies. I never did such a thing in my whole life.”
“Not singly,” said Mrs. Wyndham, laughing. “You offend people in large numbers when you do it at all, especially newspaper people. Sam read that ridiculous article in the paper to me last night.”
“Which paper?” asked John, smiling. “They have most of them been at me this week.”
“The paper,” answered Mrs. Sam, “the horrid paper. You do not suppose I would mention such a publication in my house?”
“Oh, my old enemy,” laughed John. “I do not mind that in the least. One might almost think those articles were written by Miss Thorn.”
“Perhaps they are,” answered Mrs. Wyndham. “Really,” she added, glancing at Josephine, whom Pocock Vancouver had just detached from her group of girls, “really you may not be so very, very far wrong.” John’s glance followed the direction of her eyes, and he saw Vancouver. He looked steadily at the man’s delicate pale features and intellectual head, and at the end of half a minute he and Mrs. Wyndham looked at each other again. She probably regretted the hint she had carelessly dropped, but she met Harrington’s gaze frankly.
“I did not mean to say it,” she said, for John looked so grave that she was frightened. “It was only a guess.”