The meaning of this was quite plain. My lord strolled suggestively into the middle of the room, but before he could speak Miss Challoner said quickly: “You are very kind, sir, but I am shortly going to retire. Let me wish you good night — and good fortune.”
Mr. Comyn bowed again, favoured his lordship with a slight inclination of the head, and went out.
The Marquis watched him frowningly till he was out of the room. Then he turned to Miss Challoner. “You’re on terms of intimacy with Comyn, are you?”
“No,” replied Mary. “Hardly that, my lord.”
He came up to her, and gripped her by the shoulders. “If you don’t want to see a hole shot through that damned soft-spoken fellow you’d best keep your hands out of his. Do you understand, my girl?”
“Perfectly,” said Miss Challoner. “You’ll allow me to say that I find you absurd, my lord. Only jealousy could inspire you with this ill-placed wrath, and where there is no love there cannot be jealousy.”
He let her go. “I know how to guard my own.”
“I am not yours, sir.”
“You will very soon be. Sit down. Why are you not at the ball?”
“I had no inclination for it, sir. I might ask, why are not you?”