Lee gave a little shriek of delight, sat down on the floor, and embraced her knees.
“Quick! Tell me.”
“He’s an Englishman.”
“Tiny!”
“I met him in London two years ago, and he asked me then; but I couldn’t make up my mind. It’s such a bore making up one’s mind. I didn’t bother much, but we corresponded, and it came about with less trouble than I thought it would: I wrote him last night definitely. He has been so faithful—when I think of those that have come and gone meanwhile!—and he really is very nice. Not very amusing, but, enfin, not too talkative.”
“What is his name?”
“Lord Arrowmount.”
“That makes it just perfect!”
“I wish he were not. It will be such a bore living up to things one wasn’t born to. And after the lazy freedom of California! When I was in London it seemed to me that the poor women were worked to death. I’d far rather have married an American—if it were a mere matter of nationality.”
“They won’t make you do anything over there that you don’t want to,” said Lee wisely. “You have the sweetest little face and the softest voice in the world, but the cool way in which you walk straight at what you want—it’s too clever!”