“Nonsense! You couldn’t be.”
“Visit my new picture in three months—my biggest thing. You will say my mistress fares well at my hands.”
“Mere talk. I have seen your mistress, and before every picture I have thought of those women! A thing cannot be good at your price: so don’t talk that sentimental stuff to me.”
“Be original; you said that to me thirty years ago.”
“I remember perfectly: that did not require much sense.”
“No; you tossed it off, as it were. Yet I’d have made you a good husband. You are the most interesting woman I’ve ever met.”
“The compliment is not remarkable. Now, Ian Belward, don’t try to say clever things. And remember that I will have no mischief-making.”
“At thy command—”
“Oh, cease acting, and take Sophie to her carriage.” Two hours later, Delia Gasgoyne sat in her bedroom wondering at Gaston’s abstraction during the drive home. Yet she had a proud elation at his success, and a happy tear came to her eye.
Meanwhile Gaston was supping with his uncle. Ian was in excellent spirits: brilliant, caustic, genial, suggestive. After a little while Gaston rose to the temper of his host. Already the scene in the Commons was fading from him, and when Ian proposed Paris immediately, he did not demur. The season was nearly over.