“That’s very good—very good,” murmured Willie Woodley.
“Oh, go to the Tower, and feel the ax, if you like,” said Mrs. Westgate. “I consent to your going with Mr. Woodley; but I should not let you go with an Englishman.”
“Miss Bessie wouldn’t care to go with an Englishman!” Mr. Woodley declared with a faint asperity that was, perhaps, not unnatural in a young man, who, dressing in the manner that I have indicated and knowing a great deal, as I have said, about London, saw no reason for drawing these sharp distinctions. He agreed upon a day with Miss Bessie—a day of that same week.
An ingenious mind might, perhaps, trace a connection between the young girl’s allusion to her destitution of social privileges and a question she asked on the morrow as she sat with her sister at lunch.
“Don’t you mean to write to—to anyone?” said Bessie.
“I wrote this morning to Captain Littledale,” Mrs. Westgate replied.
“But Mr. Woodley said that Captain Littledale had gone to India.”
“He said he thought he had heard so; he knew nothing about it.”
For a moment Bessie Alden said nothing more; then, at last, “And don’t you intend to write to—to Mr. Beaumont?” she inquired.
“You mean to Lord Lambeth,” said her sister.