‘They said you had a lady here, so I told them another would make no difference.—How do you do, Mrs. Damerel? It’s so long since I had the pleasure of seeing you.’
Beatrice French stepped forward, smiling ominously, and eyeing first Crewe then his companion with curiosity of the frankest impertinence. Mrs. Damerel stood up.
‘We will speak of our business at another time, Mr. Crewe.’
Crewe, red with anger, turned upon Beatrice.
‘I tell you I am engaged—’
‘To Mrs. Damerel?’ asked the intruder airily.
‘You might suppose,’—he addressed the elder lady,—‘that this woman has some sort of hold upon me—’
‘I’m sure I hope not,’ said Mrs. Damerel, ‘for your own sake.’
‘Nothing of the kind. She has pestered me a good deal, and it began in this way.’
Beatrice gave him so fierce a look, that his tongue faltered.