“Not at all—not at all,” said Lady Innisfail, shaking her head. “If it was his father it would be quite another matter.”
“Oh!”
“Lord Fotheringay is too great a responsibility even for me, and I don’t as a rule shirk such things,” said Lady Innisfail. “But Harold is—well, I’ll let you into a secret, though it is against myself: he has never made love even to me.”
“That is inexcusable,” remarked Miss Craven, with a little movement of the eyebrows. She did not altogether appreciate Lady Innisfail’s systems. She had not a sufficient knowledge of dynamics and the transference of energy to be able to understand the beauty of the “switch” principle. “But if he is not with a friend—or—or—the other—”
“The enemy—our enemy?”
“Where can he be—where can he have been?”
“Heaven knows! There are some things that are too wonderful for me. I fancied long ago that I knew Man. My dear Helen, I was a fool. Man is a mystery. What could that boy mean by going to the Banshee’s Cave last night, when he might have been dancing with me—or you?”
“Romance?”
“Romance and rubbish mean the same thing to such men as Harold Wynne, Helen—you should know so much,” said Lady Innisfail. “That is, of course, romance in the abstract. The flutter of a human white frock would produce more impression on a man than a whole army of Banshees.”
“And yet the boatman said that Mr. Wynne had spent some time last night at the Cave,” said Miss Craven. “Was there a white dress in the question, do you fancy?”