‘Hush! You mustn’t talk in that way. We met at the door. Mrs. Dane knows him. What does it matter?’
Horace moved aside to Fanny. Flushed with excitement, her hair adorned with flowers, she looked very pretty.
‘Come along,’ he said, gripping her hand more violently than he intended. ‘Let us get upstairs.’
‘Oh, you hurt me! Don’t be so silly.’
The man beside her gave Horace a friendly nod. His name was Mankelow. Horace had met him once or twice of late at Mrs. Damerel’s, but did not like him, and felt still less disposed to do so now that Mankelow was acquainted with Fanny French. He suspected that the two were more familiar than Fanny pretended. With little ceremony, he interposed himself between the girl and this possible rival.
‘Why didn’t you make her come earlier?’ he said to Fanny, as they began a slow upward struggle in the rear of Mrs. Damerel.
‘It isn’t fashionable to come early.’
‘Nonsense! Look at the people here already.’
Fanny threw up her chin, and glanced back to see that Mankelow was following. In his vexation, Horace was seized with a cough—a cough several times repeated before he could check it.
‘Your cold’s no better,’ said Fanny. ‘You oughtn’t to have come out at night.’