Hyacinth stared. “But isn’t he tremendously deep in—” He hesitated.
“Deep in what?”
“Well, in what’s going on, beneath the surface. Doesn’t he belong to things?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what he belongs to—you may ask him!” cried Rosy, laughing gaily again, as the opening door readmitted the subject of their conversation. “You must have crossed the water with her ladyship,” she went on. “I wonder who enjoyed their walk most.”
“She’s a handy old girl, and she has a goodish stride,” said the young man.
“I think she’s in love with you, simply, Mr Muniment.”
“Really, my dear, for an admirer of the aristocracy you allow yourself a license,” Paul murmured, smiling at Hyacinth.
Hyacinth got up, feeling that really he had paid a long visit; his curiosity was far from satisfied, but there was a limit to the time one should spend in a young lady’s sleeping apartment. “Perhaps she is; why not?” he remarked.
“Perhaps she is, then; she’s daft enough for anything.”
“There have been fine folks before who have patted the people on the back and pretended to enter into their life,” Hyacinth said. “Is she only playing with that idea, or is she in earnest?”