“A further step in your education. You should thank me.”
The imperturbable voice exasperated one. Was there no coming to grips with the man?
“I think you are not entirely honest with me, Sir Anthony.”
“Expound, my sage. Wherein am I dishonest?”
She said steadily — “You are angry with me for refusing to go with you to Wych End. I don’t complain that you left me to Lord Barham. Indeed, I had rather you stood aloof, for I have no claim on you, and I believe I may take care of myself. But when you say that what you did was to educate me, sir, you are at fault.”
“What I did, then, was done out of spleen, you think?” Quite unruffled was the voice.
“Was it not, Sir Anthony?”
There was a slight pause. “I have an idea I don’t suffer from an excess of spleen,” Fanshawe said. “Shall we say that my rendering you up to the wolf was a punishment for churlishness?”
This was coming to grips with a vengeance. Decidedly it was not well to cross the large gentleman. One felt something of a midget.
“I am sorry that you should think me churlish, sir.” She discovered that her voice sounded small, and rather guilty, and made an effort to pull herself together. “I think you misunderstand the reason of my refusal to go to Wych End.” That was no sooner said than she wished it unsaid. God knew where it might lead.