Lady Mallowe had come for something. She had come to be amiable to Miss Temple Barholm and to establish relations with her.
“Joan should have been here to meet me,” she explained. “Her dressmaker is keeping her, of course. She will be so annoyed. She wanted very much to come with me.”
It was further revealed that she might arrive at any moment, which gave Miss Alicia an opportunity to express, with pretty grace, the hope that she would, and her trust that she was quite well.
“She is always well,” Lady Mallowe returned. “And she is of course as interested as we all are in this romantic thing. It is perfectly delicious, like a three-volumed novel.”
“It is romantic,” said Miss Alicia, wondering how much her visitor knew or thought she knew, and what circumstances would present themselves to her as delicious.
“Of course one has heard only the usual talk one always hears when everybody is chattering about a thing,” Lady Mallowe replied, with a propitiating smile. “No one really knows what is true and what isn't. But it is nice to notice that all the gossip speaks so well of him. No one seems to pretend that he is anything but extremely nice himself, notwithstanding his disadvantages.”
She kept a fine hazel eye, surrounded by a line which artistically represented itself as black lashes, steadily resting on Miss Alicia as she said the last words.
“He is,” said Miss Alicia, with gentle firmness, “nicer than I had ever imagined any young man could be—far nicer.”
Lady Mallowe's glance round the luxurious private sitting-room and over the perfect “idea” of Mrs. Mellish was so swift as to be almost imperceptible.
“How delightful!” she said. “He must be unusually agreeable, or you would not have consented to stay and take care of him.”