‘Oh—Mayfair. You know Mayfair, don’t you?’
‘You were going to meet a gentleman at the corner of Mayfair—were you?’ I said, getting quite bewildered.
She jumped up, clapping her hands as gracefully as merrily, and crying—
‘I wasn’t going to meet any gentleman. There! Your six questions are answered. I won’t answer a single other you choose to ask, unless I please, which is not in the least likely.’
She made me a low half merry, half mocking courtesy and left the room.
The same moment her father came in, following old Mr Coningham, who gave me a kindly welcome, and said his horse was at my service, but he hoped I would lunch with him first. I gratefully consented, and soon luncheon was announced. Miss Coningham, Clara’s aunt, was in the dining-room before us. A dry, antiquated woman, she greeted me with unexpected frankness. Lunch was half over before Clara entered—in a perfectly fitting habit, her hat on, and her skirt thrown over her arm.
‘Soho, Clara!’ cried her father; ‘you want to take us by surprise—coming out all at once a town-bred lady, eh?’
‘Why, where ever did you get that riding-habit, Clara?’ said her aunt.
‘In my box, aunt,’ said Clara.
‘My word, child, but your father has kept you in pocket-money!’ returned Miss Coningham.