There was a drollery, not lost on her, in the way his queer presence lent itself to his emphasised plural.
"Do you consider that you do?"
At this, with his deliberation, he came back to his charming idea. "Only try me, and see if I can't be made to. Work me in." On her sharply presenting her back he stared a little at the clock. "If I come at seven may I stay to dinner?"
It brought her round again. "Impossible. I'm dining out."
"With whom?"
She had to think. "With Lord Considine."
"Oh my eye!" Scott exclaimed.
She looked at him gloomily. "Is that sort of tone what makes you pay? I think you might understand," she went on, "that if you're to sponge on me successfully you mustn't ruin me. I must have some remote resemblance to a lady."
"Yes? But why must I?" Her exasperated silence was full of answers, of which however his inimitable manner took no account. "You don't understand my real strength; I doubt if you even understand your own. You're clever, Mamie, but you're not so clever as I supposed. However," he pursued, "it's out of Mrs. Medwin that you'll get it."
"Get what?"