'I don't know—he is very quiet.'
'Doesn't it please him—his wife's improvement?' The girl got up; apparently she was made uncomfortable by the ironical effect, if not by the ironical intention, of this question. Her old friend was kind but she was penetrating; her very next words pierced further. 'Of course if you are really protecting her I can't count upon you': a remark not adapted to enliven Laura, who would have liked immensely to transfer herself to Queen's Gate and had her very private ideas as to the efficacy of her protection. Lady Davenant kissed her and then suddenly said—'Oh, by the way, his address; you must tell me that.'
'His address?'
'The young man's whom you brought here. But it's no matter,' the old woman added; 'the butler will have entered it—from his card.'
'Lady Davenant, you won't do anything so loathsome!' the girl cried, seizing her hand.
'Why is it loathsome, if he comes so often? It's rubbish, his caring for Selina—a married woman—when you are there.'
'Why is it rubbish—when so many other people do?'
'Oh, well, he is different—I could see that; or if he isn't he ought to be!'
'He likes to observe—he came here to take notes,' said the girl. 'And he thinks Selina a very interesting London specimen.'
'In spite of her dislike of him?'