She motioned him to sit by her on the sofa, but Anne stopped him.
“First, let me make you and Lord Milborough acquainted. I believe you already know Mr Burnby? But not Sir Walter Paxton?”
Each man looked at the other with disfavour, as is the habit of men. To avoid speaking to them, Wareham dropped into the seat Mrs Martyn had indicated, and she immediately bubbled into whispered confidence.
“Yes, it really has been terrible, having that poor young man so entirely on one’s hands, and so awkward, too, after what had happened! You remember I told you how very foolish I thought his coming?”
“I remember. But this could hardly have been in your thoughts.”
“No, of course not. Not this in particular, but I felt sure some unpleasant complications would arise, and Anne is absolutely enigmatical. You never know where to find her. I dare say you want to know in what position the two stand. Well, I can’t tell you. I know no more than yourself.”
Wareham repudiated curiosity, and felt himself disbelieved. Mrs Martyn waved a white hand and smiled.
“Oh, I don’t suspect you of such a weakness. It is one that man cherishes in secret, and you might be obliged to me for answering questions without forcing you to put them. I own frankly myself that I wish to find out, and cannot. But, poor fellow, however it was, this—”
She stopped and sighed expressively. Wareham felt a grip of fear.
“I have known men pull through far worse illnesses,” he said doggedly.