He glanced at her companion, a young man whose face seemed vaguely familiar to him, and then his eyes rested once more on the girl. Even his masculine intelligence could appreciate the perfection—in a slightly foreign style—of her clothes; and, as to her beauty, he had never been under any delusions. Nor, apparently, was her escort, whose expression was not one of unalloyed pleasure at the interruption to his tête-à-tête.
“The Carlton seems rather a favourite resort of yours,” she continued, watching him through half-closed eyes. “I think you’re very wise to make the most of it while you can.”
“While I can?” said Hugh. “That sounds rather depressing.”
“I’ve done my best,” continued the girl, “but matters have passed out of my hands, I’m afraid.”
Again Hugh glanced at her companion, but he had risen and was talking to some people who had just come in.
“Is he one of the firm?” he remarked. “His face seems familiar.”
“Oh, no!” said the girl. “He is—just a friend. What have you been doing this afternoon?”
“That, at any rate, is straight and to the point,” laughed Hugh. “If you want to know, I’ve just had a most depressing interview.”
“You’re a very busy person, aren’t you, my ugly one?” she murmured.
“The poor fellow, when I left him, was quite prostrated with grief, and—er—pain,” he went on mildly.