“Very likely she didn’t know who you were,” his friend reasoned. “And anyhow, your zeal is mighty sudden. You appear to have been letting things go at loose ends for I don’t know how long; and all at once you take fire like tinder because a poor woman amuses herself by throwing bread to the carp. It’s simply spite: you’re disappointed in the colour of her hair. I shall esteem it a favour if you’ll leave the keeper’s instructions as they are. She’s a damned good-looking woman; and I’ll beg you not to interfere with her diversions.”
“I can deny you nothing, Uncle,” said Hilary, by this time restored to his accustomed easy temper; “and therefore she may make hay of the whole blessed establishment, if she pleases. But as for her good looks—that, you’ll admit, is entirely a question of taste.”
“Ah, well, then the conclusion is that your taste needs cultivation,” laughed Ferdinand. “By-the-bye, I shall be glad if you will find out who she is.”
“Thank you very much,” cried Hilary. “I have a reputation to safeguard. Do you think I’m going to compromise myself, and set all my underlings a-sniggling, by making inquiries about the identity of a woman?”
“But,” persisted Ferdinand, “if I ask you to do so, as your———-”
“What?” was Hilary’s brusque interruption.
“As your guest,” said Ferdinand.
“Mille regrets, impossible, as the French have it,” Hilary returned. “But as your host, I give you carte-blanche to make your own inquiries for yourself—if you think she’s worth the trouble. Being a stranger here, you have, as it were, no character to lose.”
“After all, it doesn’t matter,” said Ferdinand Augustus, with resignation.