Miss Challoner obediently brought back the tray. She sat down by the bed, and watched his lordship drink the gruel. He looked suspiciously at her, but she preserved an innocent front. He finished what was left in the bowl, and put it down. “Mary,” said he, “come a little closer and present your left cheek.”
A dimple quivered. “Why, sir?”
“Don’t you know?” said Vidal.
She laughed. “Why yes, sir. You would dearly love to box my ears.”
“I should,” he said. “Don’t think I’m deceived by that meek face! Where are you going?”
“Down to the parlour, sir.”
“Stay with me. I want to talk to you.” This was decidedly a command. Miss Challoner raised her eyebrows in faint hauteur. Vidal grinned. “Dear Mary, pray do me the honour of remaining at my side.”
She sat down again, slightly inclining her head. “Certainly, sir, but I do not think I gave you leave to call me Mary.”
“Give me leave now, then,” said Vidal. “Are we not betrothed?”
She shook her head. “No, my lord.”