‘I thought people usually kept their country seats for the purposes of retirement, but we have never been alone since we came here.’
Ilfracombe laughed.
‘Why, my darling, what do you call us at the present moment? We couldn’t well be much more alone.’
‘Mr Portland is here,’ replied the countess.
‘Old Jack! You don’t call him anybody, surely? He’s as much at home at Thistlemere as we are. I wish he would live here altogether. I don’t know what I shall do when he does go. I shall be lost without my old chum to smoke with and talk to.’
‘I don’t think you need anticipate any such calamity,’ said Nora, with something of her old, sharp manner. ‘Mr Portland does not appear to have the slightest intention of moving.’
‘He was thinking of it, though. He had a letter yesterday, which he said obliged him to return to town, but I persuaded him to write instead. It would be awfully dull for me if he went away, just at this time when there is nothing going on.’
‘Complimentary to me,’ retorted the young countess, with a shrug.
‘Now, my darling, you know what I mean. You are all the world to me—a part of myself—but you can’t sit up till the small hours playing billiards and smoking cigars with me.’
‘No. I draw the line at cigars, Ilfracombe.’