"Why not? How very unkind. We have been friends eight months now, and you are just beginning to be cross to me. You see how familiarity breeds contempt; you used to be so polite."
"I shan't tell you where Blackwood is," said Lord Saltire, "because I don't choose. I don't want you to have it. I want you to sit here in the dark and talk to me, instead of reading it."
"I will sit and talk to you in the dark; only you must not tell ghost stories."
"I want you to sit in the dark," said Lord Saltire, "because I want to be 'vox et præterea nihil.' You will see why, directly. My dear Mary Corby, I want to have some very serious talk with you. Let us joke no more."
Mary settled herself at once into the arm-chair opposite Lord Saltire, and, resting her cheek on her hand, turned her face towards the empty fireplace. "Now, my dear Lord Saltire," she said, "go on. I think I can anticipate what you are going to say."
"You mean about Charles."
"Yes."
"Ah, that is only a part of what I have to say. I want to consult you there, certainly; but that is but a small part of the business."
"Then I am curious."
"Do you know, then, I am between eighty and ninety years old?"