“I knew you would. Give me more of a carte blanche to come and go.”
“But you are here a great deal now.”
“Yes, as a formal visitor. Come, now, Mrs Barnett; if this were another establishment, and you a stranger and saw me here from time to time, would you ever imagine that dear Isabel and I were engaged?”
“Well—er—no.”
“Of course you would not. There, I need not say any more; I am quite satisfied. Is she with her father now?”
“No; I think she is down the garden.”
Sir Cheltnam smiled, bent forward, took and kissed the lady’s hand.
“Thank you,” he said, with a meaning smile; and he rose from the lounge in the drawing room where the above conversation had taken place, and turned toward the French window which opened out upon the lawn.
“No, no, really, Sir Cheltnam. I did not mean that.”
“My dear Mrs Barnett—”