"But I think on this occasion you might have some difficulty, Mr. Flood," Mary answered, with half a smile—the man thought he had never seen such charm and such self-possession.
Her voice was like a silver bell, heard far away on a mountain side. No, it wasn't, it was like water falling into water—like a tiny waterfall, falling into a deep, translucent pool in a wood!
"Go on, Miss Marriott," he replied, with a smile.
"I want to bring some one to the reading of the play this afternoon," she said.
"That is all right," he answered; "but provided, of course, that your friend will not divulge anything about the play more than we allow him to do. Why, I have just given little Lionel C. Westwood permission to come and hear the play read. Of course, Mr. Rose must have a say in the matter. But who do you want to bring?"
"I have asked Mr. Rose," Mary replied. "I saw him this morning, and he raised no objections, provided only that you gave your consent."
"Well, then, it is a foregone conclusion," Flood returned; "but who is it?"
"Well," Mary answered, "it is the Duke of Paddington."
Aubrey Flood looked at her for a moment, his eyes wide with amazement.