“There, there,” said she, “I don’t want you to invent an excuse. You would only have met people whom you know.”
“Of course,” said Harold, “you’re not foolish enough to ask your discoveries down to shoot pheasants. I should like to see some of them in a battue with my best enemies. Yes, I’d hire a window, with pleasure.”
“Didn’t he behave well—the Coming Dramatist?” said she, earnestly. “You cannot say he didn’t behave well—at least for a Coming Person.”
“He behaved—wonderfully,” said Harold. “Good-bye.”
She followed him to the door of the room—nay, outside.
“By the bye,” said she, in a whisper; “do you know anything of a Miss Avon?”
“Miss Avon?” said Harold. “Miss Avon. Why, if she is the daughter of Julius Anthony Avon, the historian, we met her at Castle Innisfail. Why do you ask me, Ella?”
“It is so funny,” said she. “Yesterday Mr. Airey called upon me, and before he left he begged of me to call upon her, and even hinted—he has got infinite tact—that she would make a charming addition to our party at Abbeylands.”
“Ah,” said Harold.
“And just now papa has been whispering to me about this same Miss Avon. He commanded me—papa has no tact—to invite her to join us for a week. I wonder what that means.”