“I am told he is an athlete, a great horseman, a marvelous swordsman,” said Lady Frances.
“I am glad you have heard something about him that is true,” said Dorothy, a trifle quickly. “Usually they say that princes are all that is detestable and unmanly. I am sure you will like him, Phil.”
Mrs. Garrison came up at this moment with Lady Marnham, and Quentin arose to greet the former as warmly as he could under the smooth veil of hypocrisy. Again, just before Lady Frances signaled to him that it was time for them to leave, he found himself in conversation, over the teacups, with Dorothy Garrison. This time they were quite alone.
“It doesn't seem possible that you are the same Dorothy Garrison I used to know,” he said, reflectively.
“Have I changed so much?” she asked, and there was in her manner an icy barrier that would have checked a less confident man than Philip Quentin.
“In every way. You were charming in those days.”
“And not charming now, I infer.”
“You are more than charming now. That is hardly a change, however, is it? Then, you were very pretty, now you are beautiful. Then, you were—”
“I don't like flattery, Phil,” she said, hurt by what she felt to be an indifferent effort on his part to please her vanity.
“I am quite sure you remember me well enough to know that I never said nice things unless I meant them. But, now that I think of it, it is the height of impropriety to speak so plainly even to an old friend, and an old—er—chum.”