His hostess, the next moment, had drawn spirit from his tone.
“Oh, I shall be delighted if you’ll take your share of it. Charlotte Stant is in London. She has just been here.”
“Miss Stant? Oh really?” The Prince expressed clear surprise—a transparency through which his eyes met his friend’s with a certain hardness of concussion. “She has arrived from America?” he then quickly asked.
“She appears to have arrived this noon—coming up from Southampton; at an hotel. She dropped upon me after luncheon and was here for more than an hour.”
The young man heard with interest, though not with an interest too great for his gaiety. “You think then I’ve a share in it? What IS my share?”
“Why, any you like—the one you seemed just now eager to take. It was you yourself who insisted.”
He looked at her on this with conscious inconsistency, and she could now see that he had changed colour. But he was always easy.
“I didn’t know then what the matter was.”
“You didn’t think it could be so bad?”
“Do you call it very bad?” the young man asked. “Only,” she smiled, “because that’s the way it seems to affect YOU.”