“No, I have been out of town this week,” he replied. “I should have called, of course. Your guardian is a friend of mine.”
This circumstance was hardly a credential in Miss Taverner’s opinion, but she merely said: “You are very good, sir. But how came you to know me?”
“You have been described to me, Miss Taverner. I could not mistake.”
A flush stole up into her cheeks; she raised her eyes and looked very steadily at him. “By Mr. Mills, perhaps, sir?”
One of his mobile brows went up. “No, ma’am, not by Mr. Mills. May I ask—or is it an impertinence?—why you should have thought so?”
“Mr. Mills has made it his business to describe me in so many quarters that it was a natural conclusion,” said Judith bitterly.
“Indeed!” He looked down at her rather penetratingly. “I am such an inquisitive creature, Miss Taverner. I hope you mean to tell me why you are looking so very angry,” he said.
She smiled. “I should not, I know. But I must warn you, sir, it is not the fashion to be seen talking to me.”
Both brows went up at that. “On the authority of Mr. Mills?” inquired the gentleman.
“Yes, sir, as I understand. Mr. Mills has been good enough to christen me the Milkmaid, and to declare that no one of fashion could tolerate my—my person.” She tried to speak lightly, but only succeeded in letting her indignation peep through.