“I have quarrelled with them,” he answered, staring at his mutton as though he were criticizing it. “I mean, I have left the firm and have nothing more to do with the business.”
Barbara’s eyes lit up as she whispered back:
“Glad of it. Best news I have heard for many a day. But then, may I ask why you are here?”
“I came to see you,” he replied humbly—“thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind,” and in his confusion he let his knife fall into the mutton, whence it rebounded, staining his shirt front.
Barbara laughed, that happy, delightful little laugh of hers, presumably at the accident with the knife. Whether or no she “minded” did not appear, only she handed her handkerchief, a costly, lace-fringed trifle, to Alan to wipe the gravy off his shirt, which he took thinking it was a napkin, and as she did so, touched his hand with a little caressing movement of her fingers. Whether this was done by chance or on purpose did not appear either. At least it made Alan feel extremely happy. Also when he discovered what it was, he kept that gravy-stained handkerchief, nor did she ever ask for it back again. Only once in after days when she happened to come across it stuffed away in the corner of a despatch-box, she blushed all over, and said that she had no idea that any man could be so foolish out of a book.
“Now that you are really clear of it, I am going for them,” she said presently when the wiping process was finished. “I have only restrained myself for your sake,” and, leaning back in her chair she stared at the ceiling, lost in meditation.
Presently there came one of those silences which will fall upon dinner-parties at times, however excellent and plentiful the champagne.
“Sir Robert Aylward,” said Barbara in that clear, carrying voice of hers, “will you, as an expert, instruct a very ignorant person? I want a little information.”
“Miss Champers,” he answered, “am I not always at your service?” and all listened to hear upon what point their hostess desired to be enlightened.
“Sir Robert,” she went on calmly, “everyone here is, I believe, what is called a financier, that is except myself and Major Vernon, who only tries to be and will, I am sure, fail, since Nature made him something else, a soldier and—what else did Nature make you, Alan?”