“On the twenty-fifth?” St. George asked vaguely.
“We dine with you; I hope you haven’t forgotten. He’s dining out that day,” she added gaily to Paul.
“Oh bless me, yes—that’s charming! And you’re coming? My wife didn’t tell me,” St. George said to him. “Too many things—too many things!” he repeated.
“Too many people—too many people!” Paul exclaimed, giving ground before the penetration of an elbow.
“You oughtn’t to say that. They all read you.”
“Me? I should like to see them! Only two or three at most,” the young man returned.
“Did you ever hear anything like that? He knows, haughtily, how good he is!” St. George declared, laughing to Miss Fancourt. “They read me, but that doesn’t make me like them any better. Come away from them, come away!” And he led the way out of the exhibition.
“He’s going to take me to the Park,” Miss Fancourt observed to Overt with elation as they passed along the corridor that led to the street.
“Ah does he go there?” Paul asked, taking the fact for a somewhat unexpected illustration of St. George’s moeurs.
“It’s a beautiful day—there’ll be a great crowd. We’re going to look at the people, to look at types,” the girl went on. “We shall sit under the trees; we shall walk by the Row.”