Mr. Wentworth stared a moment, and remembered that queer proposition of Felix’s. For a moment he did not know whether it was not to be wished that Clifford, after all, might have gone to Boston. “The Baroness has not honored us tonight,” he said. “She has not come over for three days.”
“Is she ill?” Acton asked.
“No; I have been to see her.”
“What is the matter with her?”
“Well,” said Mr. Wentworth, “I infer she has tired of us.”
Acton pretended to sit down, but he was restless; he found it impossible to talk with Mr. Wentworth. At the end of ten minutes he took up his hat and said that he thought he would “go off.” It was very late; it was ten o’clock.
His quiet-faced kinsman looked at him a moment. “Are you going home?” he asked.
Acton hesitated, and then answered that he had proposed to go over and take a look at the Baroness.
“Well, you are honest, at least,” said Mr. Wentworth, sadly.
“So are you, if you come to that!” cried Acton, laughing. “Why shouldn’t I be honest?”