Mrs Ravenhill laughed.
“We didn’t feel necessary.”
“And you brought the author.”
“Yes. If Millie’s ideas were correct, the poor man had nothing for it but to fly.”
“Why?” Lady Fanny pricked her ears.
“She fancied he had lost his heart to Miss Dalrymple. I don’t know, I am sure, if she was right, but it is quite possible. According to you, Fanny, such matters don’t take long, now-a-days.”
Lady Fanny had received a shock, though she carried it off stoutly.
“Oh, no, not long. But his heart is safely buttoned up under his waistcoat; trust me! Admire her, he would, he must—that doesn’t include loving. Besides—his friend! Why it would be base, dishonourable! Millie, you are an uncharitable little ignoramus, to take such ideas into your head.”
And Millie was content to think so.
The next day was brilliantly fine, and they were to go to tea at the Tower, and as Lady Fanny had never seen it, the sights were to be pointed out to her beforehand by a special warder. They went by Underground, and on the way to the South Kensington station, a gentleman doubtfully crossed the road, and was struck by amazement at finding himself before Lady Fanny. Mrs Ravenhill perceived that he was a clergyman, tall, and, at this moment, pink. He began to stammer vague sentences, mixtures of pleasure, astonishment, apology, Lady Fanny surveying him with a frown.