Undoubtedly he was for sale; Desmond Brooke, though he was in no need of money, did not believe in running anything save on business lines. But now something that he did not stop to analyse made him hesitate. He felt a sudden inconsequent distaste against selling the puppy to her.
“You’ve picked the best, I see,” he said quietly.
“Of course,” she answered, with the faintest trace of hauteur. Insensibly she felt that this man was hostile to her.
“I am afraid that that one is not for sale,” he continued. “You can have any of the others if you like.”
Abruptly she restored the puppy to its mother.
“Having chosen the best, Mr. Brooke,” she said, looking him straight in the face, “I don’t care about taking anything second-rate.”
For a second or two they stared at one another. Ada Laverton had wandered away and was talking shop to the gardener; the Hermit and Lady Cynthia were alone.
“You surprise me,” said the Hermit, calmly.
“That is gratuitously rude,” answered the girl quietly. “It is also extremely impertinent. And lastly it shows that you are a very bad judge of character.”
The man bowed.