“Oh, no,” laughing. “Women who are reigning types of English beauty never have to do as they are told. They simply reign.”
“All the same I’m afraid Lawrence would know you far too well to put his head in such a noose,” said Mrs Carew. “If any man would let you do as you liked, Selloyd would, and they say he is fabulously rich.”
“I don’t care. He can keep his old riches and his old title: I tell you I’m having a good time, and I don’t mean to change it. With half Calcutta at your feet abroad, and Lawrence at your feet at home, what could I possibly want more?”
“You will wake up one day and find Lawrence gone, and the others rapidly getting tired of stooping.”
“I don’t care—and Lawrence would have to come back.”
“That wouldn’t be much good if he were married.”
“Married!—Lawrence married!” and a ringing laugh sounded through the room. “Why, he’d never have the energy to propose, much less be bothered to get fixed up. He’ll just lounge about in easy-chairs all his life, smiling his cynical old smile, and rousing himself occasionally to make cutting speeches. The only way to marry Lawrence would be to propose yourself, and arrange everything, because he’d give in rather than have the bother of refusing. That’s how it will probably end, and I shall take pity on him and be the victim. I shall say, ‘Wake up, Lawrie, you’ve got to marry me,’ and I shall have the licence all ready and drag him off then and there.”
“Who did you say would be the victim!” he asked.
The butler entered with a letter, and, after hastily reading it, Mrs Carew explained that she must send an answer that evening, and excusing herself to Lawrence went out, leaving the young folks alone. Gwendoline seated herself on the arm of a chair near him and commenced a running conversation.
“How did you like that photograph I sent you?” she asked presently. “I don’t believe you ever had the manners to write and thank me.”